Sick Days
by Ashtree1165
Summary: Random one-shots of our favourite consulting detective either injured or sick. 'Cus we all just can't get enough of it. NO SLASH just some bromance with some hurt/comfort and hopefully some humour.
1. Chapter 1: Black & Blue

**I just randomly wrote this. If you like it, I'll do like a new hurt/comfort/humor like story for each chapter. If you don't, then I'll leave it as a one-shot. Please review and tell me what you think.**

**Chapter 1: Black & Blue**

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Sherlock sighed as he slowly limped up the flight of stairs to 221B Baker Street. Wincing occasionally at the sharp pain that seared through his left ankle annoyingly. It was really beginning to erritate him.

He'd gone out to investigate for a case. You know, stealthily follow a suspect around town, possibly get someone arrested. The usual. But nope, not today. Today just so happened to be the day that he 'stalked' the wrong suspect. Leading to a fist fight -which Sherlock admittedly hadn't seen coming- between him and five other very well fit individuals.

Of course, he won. Well, kind of, he liked to think so anyway. He did succesfully knock two unconscious, and ended up getting them all arrested in the end with a short text to the -ever so loyal- Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

But that didn't mean he got away unscathed. Oh no, he walked away with a black eye, busted lip, bruised jaw, two fractured -possibly broken- ribs, bloody knuckles, and a sprained ankle. And the short but deep gash on his right arm from the jack-ass who pulled a knife. Which was so not fare, wasn't it like a rule or something that you just don't bring knives to fist fights. Well, let's just say Sherlock wasn't having the best day.

As he made his way into his flat, slamming the door behind him, he unceremoniously threw himself down onto the incredibly plush couch. Laying his head down on their Union Jack pillow with a deep, more than slightly painful sigh. Where he quickly began to nod off and found himself really appreciating just how comfy their couch was, something you really don't realize nor appreciate till you're dead beat tired. His whole being hurt. Or was it more of an ache? And to think, it wasn't even noon yet...

Sherlock winced as his headache began to pound furiously behind his eyes as John came through the front door, accidentally slamming it shut behind him just as Sherlock had done. "Sherlock!" Watson, ever the doctor, hurried over to his injured friend to asses his injuries.

"John, please don't yell it's really not helping a thing." Sherlock only partially -though he'd never admit- wined. "What are you even doing here? You're s'possed to be at the clinic." He only slightly slurred.

John sighed, "I got a call from Donovan. She said you got into a fight with a gang? A gang!? Sherlock what the hell were you thinking!?"

"John! Voice. _lower IT_." Sherlock couldn't help but snap, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was tired, injured, in pain, and about a second away from punching John in the throat if he didn't shut it right now! The man could be so loud!

"Sorry," John mumbled. "But were you even thinking Sherlock?" He couldn't help but get angry with his friend. It was like he constantly went looking for trouble. No, he never really got into fights, but he wasn't really surprised that he had. Didn't stop him from worrying though.

Sherlock sighed, he hated making John angry. One, because he was one of the _very_ few people Sherlock actually liked in his life. So he didn't want to piss the guy off. Two, because he was Sherlock's favorite person in his life. So why would he want to upset him? And Three, because _he could nag him for hours!_

"Yes, I was thinking. I was thinking I could have this case closed by this afternoon. I was thinking that this _one_ guy would be daft enough to lead me to their whole setup down town. I _wasn't_ thinking I was going to get jumped by a entire _gang_."

John sighed and noticed for the first time that Sherlock was holding his right arm close to his chest. Covering it with his other hand in a very protective manner.

"Sherlock, what's up with your arm?" John asked suddenly, surprising Sherlock. He tends to forget that John's not a dumb as the rest of the world, that -at times- he can deduce as well.

"And what do you mean by that John? There's absolutely nothing wrong with my arm." Sherlock tried, hoping he'd drop it. But he knew better, he knew John. And there was no way he'd just let it go.

John raised an eyebrow. "Then you wouldn't mind me taking a look at it then."

"John." Sherlock warned. But before he could say much else, John had snatched his arm away with a small barely noticeable intake of breath.

"God damn it Sherlock!" John snapped, "why wouldn't you bandage this or anything!?" He asked, noticing the dried blood that had crusted around the cut.

"Well I was going to as soon as I got home," Sherlock quickly defended. And he was, he just got a little distracted by their super comfy sofa. "Besides it's not like it's still bleeding or anything."

John sighed and rubbed his forehead, exasperated. "C'mon Sherlock," he said pulling him off the couch to clean the wound himself.

To John's surprise, as soon as he got Sherlock to his feet, he fell back on the couch with a small, very uncharacteristic, yelp of pain. Sherlock doesn't not _yelp_.

"Damn!" Sherlock hissed.

"What!? What hurts?" John asked him.

"It's my ankle. It's fractured or something, I'm not sure." Sherlock explained, clearly in an unfair amount of pain.

John nodded, "okay then never mind. You stay right here, I'll go get the first aid kit. Just, don't move!" He said before speeding out of the room.

"Wasn't planning on it," Sherlock mumbled under his breath. His headache returning in full. It was times like these, which happened more frequently than he'd like, that he really appreciated the fact that his friend was a doctor.

John returned seconds later, his more expensive kit in hand. "Anything besides your ankle hurt?!" He asked, kneeling down beside Sherlock.

"Yes, my head. And all your damn yelling really isn't aiding in anyway." Sherlock returned grumpily.

John rolled his eyes and began cleaning the cut on Sherlock's arm. "I'll give you some pain medication as soon as I'm done with your these. And we really probably should put ice on your eye. Or all over your face, the whole thing seems rather nasty."

"Thank you so much John for that endearing comment," Sherlock said practically dripping with sarcasm. "It really brings one's spirits up. You ever considered being a motivational speaker?"

"Oh shut up Sherlock," John snapped. Trying to hide the tiny smile pulling at his lips as he nearly finished with Sherlock's arm.

* * *

"What in bloody hell happened to you?!" Lestrade couldn't help but be surprised as he entered 221B. He'd come to inform Sherlock on their case, and he wasn't expecting the scene he was met with upon arriving. Sherlock Holmes laying half asleep on his couch covered in scrapes and bruises. He had to admit, it was rather amusing seeing the famed detective like this.

"I was jumped," Sherlock deadpanned.

"You mean to tell me that the little gang I arrested took down the great Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade snickered.

"They did not 'take me down,'" Sherlock grumbled. "They simply caught me by surprise. A blow to the back of the head would disorientate anyone."

Lestrade smiled down at his friend. They were friends right? Acquaintance maybe? "Right, my mistake. I just thought you'd like to know we got them. All of them. One squeaked and led us to the last few members who weren't at the scene."

Sherlock nodded, "good."

Upon noticing Lestrade wasn't leaving, but still standing rather awkwardly in the centre of their flat, he popped one eye open to peer at the Detective Inspector. "Was that all, or are you going to stand there and annoy me further?"

"Well, if you must know, I was going to let you in on my _new_ case. Double homicide." Lestrade said, knowing it would immediately peek the detective's interest, and holding up a manilla folder containing the information on the case. Sherlock could never turn down a murder, let alone a double one. "But seeing as you're temporarily impaired..." He knew he got him. Hook, line, and sinker. Sometimes the ever complicated man was just that simple.

Sherlock shot up to his feet, completely ignoring the twinge in his ankle. Reaching for the folder, "Oh no you don't Lestrade! Give me that!"

Lestrade let the younger man snatch the file from his hands, grinning at the enthusiasm. The guy was a kid in a candy store, which anyone else would find odd, but Lestrade grown to appreciate that about him. "Be at Scotland Yard in twenty," he said before saying goodbye to John and leaving their flat.

Sherlock mumbled an incoherent reply, already flipping through the case file. A small smile tugging at his lips.

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**Bam! Chapter one. Review. Seriously people. Review. ;D**


	2. Chapter 2: A Cough

**Oh gosh, I love all of you so much. Within the first 5 minutes of uploading the first chapter I had nearly 5 reviews/favourites/followers. So I take it you liked it. **

**So here you go, chapter two. **

**I don't like it that much, but expect chapter 3 to be better:D ****And to anyone reading my other stories, sorry for being so late:/ Lucky you guy, I'm spending most of my time on this story. ****Oh! Shoot me some ideas for chapters. I'm nearly out of um already. So please request something. Anything! Whether its a small cough or a severed limb. I don't care!****  
****I'll do more serious chapters or even super goofy ones. Don't matter.**

**Chapter 2: A Cough**

* * *

"Are you okay Sherlock?" John asked suspiciously, glaring at his friend as they crossed under the yellow police tape of their latest crime scene. He looked a bit pale, not that he wasn't naturally. Heck, if Sherlock came home with a tan, John would probably be too freaked out to speak.

"What?" Sherlock snapped his head around to face his shorter companion. "I'm fine, I'm always fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?" He replied a bit forced.

"No need to be so defensive." John scoffed. "You just look a little OFF is all."

Sherlock didn't make eye contact as he answered John, a tell-tale sign that he was lying. He found could never look John in the eye when he flat out lied to him, though for some reason he never had an ounce of trouble lying to anyone else. Though Sherlock had a feeling it was because he actually liked and trusted him. Not that he'd say that out loud. "I'm fine John."

John just nodded, knowing he wouldn't get anything else out of the stubborn man anytime soon. Best to just let him be for the time being. He'd interrogate him later if he had to. He was a doctor after all, and it was hard to get away with faking not being sick around him.

"About time you two showed up!" Lestrade called, jogging over to meet them with Sally Donovan, much to Sherlock's dislike, right on his heels. "I phoned you nearly an hour ago," he said, holding his arms out in exasperation.

Sherlock ignored him and kept walking over to the corpse in the damp ally. He had more important things to do than listen to Lestrade squabble over his tardiness.

"Sorry, Sherlock couldn't leave without his specific scarf. And then there was a traffic jam." John apologized as upbeat as he could be at six in the morning on his one day off in the almost a month. Sherlock had practically begged him to take a day off work for this case. claiming he needed him to voice ideas off of and what not.

Lestrade nodded in understanding. This was Sherlock bloody Holmes they were talking about. He didn't exactly expect him to be punctual. And afternoon traffic in central London wasn't the greatest he had to admit.

Sherlock payed the two men no mind as they discussed unimportant matters. Pry him, but he quickly learned to not concern himself when they spoke about him behind his back. Usually discussing his 'childish', as they put it, tendencies and antics. Which he deemed completely reasonable and absolutely not childish. And he wouldn't call them 'antics' either.

He stopped once he approached the corpse, making a quick assessment of their dead guy. A well groomed, middle aged man, no one seeming too special. But looks could be oh-so deceiving.

Oh! And don't forget the several gaping stab wounds in his abdomen. Those were probably fairly important.

"So what do you got?"

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden sound of Lestrade's voice right at his side. He was so not expecting that. And the sluggishness of his mind that day really wasn't helping much

"Jesus Sherlock, no need to be so jumpy." Lestrade remarked, glaring at the consulting detective under a scrutinizing gaze.

"No need to sneak up on me while I'm thinking Lestrade," Sherlock shot back quickly.

Lestrade simply rolled his eyes, "so what do you think?" He asked, gesturing at the corpse.

"Well, the stab wounds weren't done with a knife. Their to wide, something thicker, like a crowbar or something equally as unprofessional. Meaning this was probably the suspects first murder." He rambled, glancing at John as he came up to stand beside him, instantly making him nervous. He could hide being ill around Lestrade, but it was increasingly difficult with John hovering over his shoulder. And John couldn't help but notice the thin sheen of sweat on Sherlock's forehead.

"You sure you're alright?" He asked again, concerned and annoyed with his friend.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "yes John. I'm fi-" He broke off mid-sentence into a coughing fit. Earning him a side long discriminating look from Donovan. He quickly brought a hand up to cover his mouth and took a measured step back away from the corpse. "I'm fine."

"Right, of course you are." Lestrade said with an eye roll. "When's the last time you even got sick?"

"I'm NOT sick," he insisted. "And I haven't been in almost four years, therefor I don't plan on being anytime in the near -nor distant- future. So do yourself -and everyone- a favor, and shut up."

Both John and Lestrade stared at him with eyebrows raised. Donovan just rolled her eyes and walked away to see how the others were coming along on their investigating.

"Sheesh, you're as bad as Anderson sometimes." Sherlock mumbled under his breath in frustration.

"Sherlock maybe you should just go home and rest," John suggested, holding his arms out as Sherlock began to sway a bit.

"No!" He exclaimed steadying himself. "I'm fine, I'm fi-"

John quickly caught Sherlock as he nearly passed out whilst coughing. "Yep, you're going home," John declared.

Lestrade sighed, "I'll drive."

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**There you have it. It was long-ish, and really dragged out:P But I was halfway through it and had no idea where it was going, so I just ended it. I promise that chapter three will be better. It'll be up sooner if I get some reviews;) And PLEASE send me some requests. This is a lot more fun to write when I'm writing your guys' ideas.**

**Thanx for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3: Flu

**This is dedicate to Prothoe for her request of vomiting Sherlock. Because it's so nice to see such a confident man like Sherlock knocked down a size. Which probably makes us bad people, but hay! It's entertaining. So I hope you all like it, and to the guest reviewer, whoever you are, thanks for all the suggestions. I shall use them all! Eventually.**

**BTW: I'm using Celsius for degrees.**

**ALSO: They never really clarified Sherlock's age (I don't think) so I've all ways just made him anywhere between 25 and 27. And John's like 30 to 35-ish range. Don't know why, but that's how this is going down. Mainly 'cus I think young Sherlock trying to be all adult like and emotionless is adorable. ****ANYWAY, hope you like it!**

**Chapter 3: Flu**

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It was a quiet night in 221B Baker Street. Well, it was, all up until Sherlock came flying out of bed at two in the morning and rushed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Which of course caused John to wake as well.

It was pure curiosity that dragged the exhausted doctor out of bed and down the steps. It was unlike Sherlock to wake in the middle of the night. He either never slept -that would be when he had a case- or slept like a log -that would be directly after solving a case.

So having closed their newest case the previous night, logically Sherlock should be sound asleep right now. The longer the case dragged out, the longer he slept. He even slept for almost three days after solving a particularly baffling case once. And would have slept longer if it weren't for John quite literally dragging him out of bed. So why on Earth would the detective be awake at this ungodly hour?

John padded his bare feet across the cold wooden floor of their flat and over to the shut bathroom door. He gently knocked, "Sherlock?"

No response.

"Sherlock? You all right?"

His only response was a low moan.

John carefully turned the nob, testing to see if it was locked. It wasn't. So he quickly, yet a bit hesitantly, opened the door.

To his surprise, Sherlock was crouched down in front of the toilet, gripping the porcelain sides so tight his knuckles turned white. A sheen of sweat had broke out on his forehead, and his face was ridiculously pale, even for Sherlock. John could only assume he'd been throwing up before he came down.

John rushed to his friend and knelt down beside him, laying a hand on his back. "You okay Sherlock?" Dumb question he knew, but what else was he really supposed to say?

Sherlock hesitantly released the toilet from his grip and leaned into John. To say he felt like shit would be the understatement of the century. He never got sick. _Ever_! He was Sherlock Holmes god damn it! He wasn't supposed to get sick, the occasional cough or headache were exceptions. He did spend half his time around dead people and complete morons. But this was a complete outrage!

John was a bit surprised that Sherlock had leant into him. The detective wasn't known to be touchy-feely sort of person, so it was a tad shocking. But John was constantly surprised by the things Sherlock did, so he quickly recovered and began situating them so they were both sitting, resting against the wall.

"Hay, Sherlock?"

"Hmmm? Don't feel good," Sherlock mumbled, his face buried in John's arm.

"Yeah I guessed as much," John said more to himself.

Sherlock jumped in surprise as John's cool hand reached up and touched his forehead. He wasn't expecting that, or at least not expecting it to be so bloody cold.

"Well you definitely have a fever," John sighed.

Sherlock hummed in response. He had assumed as much.

"I'd say around 37, 38 degrees. And I take it you just had an unpleasant revisit with your dinner."

Sherlock gave a weak nod and a low moan in response, his face still buried in John's shoulder. Who knew the doctor's shoulder was so damn comfortable? Sherlock sure didn't, but now he really didn't want to move. Partially for fear of upsetting his stomach again, and partially from the comfort John's presence gave him. He was surprising himself. Never before had he taken so much comfort in something as ridiculous as a friend. Sherlock didn't need friends. They were a weakness. Or at least that's how he used to see things. How he saw things before John Watson came into his life.

"Well if you'd release my arm I could go get you some meds," John offered, peering down at the drowsy detective. He couldn't help but notice how weak the usually stoic man was.

Sherlock gave a defiant wine, but complied in releasing his pillow, also known as John Watson. Leaning against the not nearly as comfortable wall instead. He sure as hell wasn't going to turn down the offer of anything that would make him feel better.

John quickly crossed the flat to their small kitchen to find there medicine cabinet. Quickly grabbing what he needed, he returned for the bathroom.

When he did returned, Sherlock was once again bent over the toilet. John stood by and let Sherlock finish before fully entering the small room.

Sherlock wiped his mouth and leaned back against the wall exhausted, looking up at John expectantly as he came in and sat down beside him. Gratefully excepting the glass of water he offered.

"Here's some Motrin, it should help with the aches and fever." Be explained, passing him the small pill. "After you finish the water I can give you some cough drops to help with the soar throat and then back to bed with you," John instructed.

Sherlock hummed, letting him know he was heard, over his glass of water. Bed sounded good. In fact, bed never sounded better.

After taking the pills and downing his water, Sherlock allowed John to half carry him back to his room. Where he unceremoniously flopped down onto his beautifully soft mattress, that he'd never appreciated more. God Sherlock was exhausted. He just hoped Lestrade wouldn't call any time soon with a case. hopefully the Yard could learn to tie their own shoe laces for once. Well that was a new one, Sherlock NOT wanting a case. He must be really sick to be thinking like that.

After getting Sherlock situated, John lay the bag of cough drops down on his bedside table along with the refilled galas of water. "Goodnight Sherlock," John said, ruffling the detectives dark curls. He couldn't help but marvel at how innocent Sherlock looked when he was like this. It was odd, seeing a man like him in a state like this. He looked like just a kid. And really, he basically was. Which was a really weird thought.

"Night John," he mumbled back. Eyes drifting shut; curled up beneath his comforter, soft curls falling in his face making him look even younger.

John gently shut his door behind him as he began to head back upstairs to his room. Only to pause half way to the steps, and opting for a night on the couch instead. You know, just in case Sherlock got sick in the middle of the night and needed him again. He'd be closer this way. You know, just in case.

* * *

**I like this one. I really do. Pry the best so far. It was sweat and bromantic. Can't get enough bromance, especially with these two. I hope you all liked it. review, shoot me any requests. Follow me on twitter Ashtree1165, you know you want to. It's an easier more simpler way of communicating. And you can pitch me ideas through that. Or just be dumb and fangirl over shit. Whatever, right?**

**BTW, I am sick of my typing software telling me Lestrade is spelled wrong. The fuq!**


	4. Chapter 4: Allergic Reaction

**OMG I'm so happy! It seems you all really enjoyed the last chapter! You have no idea how happy that makes me. I really appreciate it guys.**

**ANYWAY, hope u like the chapter. Idea is from my mystery guest reviewer who gave me a bunch of ideas.**

**Once again, NO SLASH. No paring. No ANYTHING.**

**Because I didn't do this earlier: I don't own anything. Just in case you were wondering.**

**Chapter 4: Allergic Reaction**

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"You boys up to this?" DI Lestrade asked the consulting detective and the tag along doctor as they approached the latest crime scene. Lifting the yellow tape to allow them access. It seemed to Sherlock that London was becoming murder central lately, this would be -what?- their fifth case this month. Now no one had straight out said that this was a murder, but he assumed that was so. Why else call him in? They only asked for his assistance (they being Lestrade) when a case was particularly puzzling, which was usually murder.

"Of course Lestrade, quite asking stupid questions," Sherlock said with an eye roll as he walked right on past the detective. Anyone else would have been offended by this, but Lestrade heard the smirk in his voice and simply smiled back. Something Sally Donovan would never understand about her boss.

Lestrade and Sherlock had an odd bond. Not like John and Sherlock's, but still. Lestrade was the only one who saw anything other than a psychopath in the kid. And he helped him clean up his act back when he was younger and had the whole drug problem. So that counted for something, right?

Lestrade liked to think of them as friends. Sherlock just didn't like to label things.

As Sherlock entered the second story flat, he had a sort of pause. The first thing he noticed, that he really wished he hadn't, was the over powering smell of just plain nasty. It wasn't dead body smell. No, no, he'd spent enough time in the morgue, much to Molly's pleasure, that he would have known if it was a corpse giving off that god awful stench. No, this was different, something-

"God, what in bloody hell is _that_?" John exclaimed, hand covering both nose and mouth, as he came up beside Sherlock. The taller man glancing down at him a small smirk of amusement at his friends reaction. Anyone else would have gotten a snide comment and a rude look, but not John. Never John.

Having been snapped out of his train of thought, Sherlock did his best to ignore the rancid smell and observe the rest if the room. Old, cheap, dirty. That was basically all there really was. No, wait, what was that? Not just dirty, moldy. Great, "mold."

"What?" John asked his friend.

Oh, did he just say that last part out loud? Oops. "Mold," he repeated louder. "There's mold everywhere. It's all over the walls up but the ceiling and practically lining the windows." He explained, spinning around and pointing at just the larger more visible spots for John to see.

"So that's what the stench is?" John asked genuinely curious.

Sherlock nodded before his face screwed itself into an expression of extreme disgust. "God, that _really_ smells doesn't it?"

John nodded, "yeah it does. I see why Lestrade stayed outside."

"Yeah he's not as dumb as I thought, huh?" Sherlock mumbled more to himself than anyone. Though the raised eyebrow set his way from John wasn't missed.

The duo walked over to their victim, a young woman of no more than 28 who lay in the center of her front room. Dead. No visible marks on her body other than the occasional blemish and all too familiar needle tracks on the inside of her elbow. And she just overall looked dirty herself, clearly hadn't bathed in awhile.

"Any chance it was the mold that killed her?" Sherlock asked his ever so trusty doctor.

John shook his head, "there is a possibility, but..."

"Yeah I saw them," Sherlock replied, knowing John mention the needle marks. "Where's Lestrade?" He asked no one specific, just wanting an answer.

Just at that moment, as if he'd been waiting, Lestrade entered the grubby little room. "No drugs in her system." He announced.

Oh, so that's why he was called in.

"So what di-" Sherlock broke off mid sentence into a coughing fit. Earning odd looks from both John and Lestrade. And Sally and Anderson from across the room, they always seemed to be there to taunt him in his rare moments of weakness. Which really didn't seem fare to the detective. His throats been feeling a bit itchy since they entered the room, but now it was really bothering him. As were his eyes.

"You okay?" John asked concerned. "Sherlock, your eyes are all red."

"Hmm?" He hummed turning his head to face John, his face screwed up from trying to clear his throat, "What? Why?"

"How am I supo-"

"You're a doctor John," he cut him in. As if John being a doctor meant he automatically knew everything even partially pertaining to medicinal.

"Well, I, how exactly do you feel?"

"Ahh... itchy throat, eyes hurt, watery too." He said quickly.

"It's pry just allergies," John told him.

"Allergies? I donn't have _allergies_ John." Sherlock was a bit outraged at just the thought. Why -how- could he have allergies. What in God's name was he allergic to?!

"Yeah, it's probably all the mold." John said, flipping his hand in the direction of a large patch of the disgusting stuff growing on the ceiling.

Sherlock looked positively appalled. Allergic? To mold? "Fuzzy little bitch," he mumbled. Oddly resembling a pouting four year old. What with the scratchy voice, watering eyes, defeated posture and loose curls coming down to obscure his vision.

_This isn't fare_.

Yeah, definitely a pouty four year old.

"We should probably leave," John suggested, pushing Sherlock towards the door.

"But, John!" Sherlock complained as his surprisingly strong friend pushed him out the door to the crummy little flat. "We have a possible murder to solve!"

"Humor me," John was not going to hear it. He was taking Sherlock and leaving.

"But-"

"At least let me get you some allergy pills first."

Sherlock sighed dramatically and headed down the steps and out into the streets. "Fine. But we're coming straight back."

John nodded. He could live with that, as long as Sherlock wasn't red eyed and looked as though he was about to cry anymore, he could live with that.

* * *

**I hope you liked it as much as I enjoyed writing it at 11:49 at night. I'm goin on Vacation so I promised myself I'd finish this for you before I left tomorrow night. **

**Thanks for reading! Send requests. Review. Check out my Deviant Art. Follow me on Twitter Ashtree1165**

**.****I'm going out of town for awhile, so no updates, probably. I'll see what I can do. I have a 18 hour car ride there and back again so I'll have some serious typing time. So I might come back with like six more chapter:) That's the good part of my family driving every time we go on vacation. We drive to Utah, North Carolina, New York, Jersey and now we're going to Jersey and D.C. From Kansas City. LONG drive.**

**I love you guy! Thanks for reading!... Review:)****  
**


	5. Chapter 5: Shot

**Oh my god you guys, I freaking love you. You leave the greatest comments. So, you know, keep um coming!****  
****I wrote this when I got to Jersey at midnight. I started it in the car and finished when we got to our little beach side motel. 20 hour car ride! It sucked guys. It truly did. So I started writing to entertain myself. I hope you like it, I think it turned out quite well :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Even though Sherlock Holmes' copyright is expired and he's in the public domain so anyone can do anything to him. So nobody owns him, he's a free man!**

**Chapter 5: Shot**

* * *

This was not good. This was _so_ not good. In fact, this was so not good that Sherlock was pretty sure that John was going to be seriously pissed when he found out. And it wasn't often that John got good and truly upset with Sherlock. He tended to have a better tolerance for him than most.

That all is, of course, if he managed to make it home. Walking always was a bit more difficult with your shoulder bleeding all down the front of your jacket. And the blood loss was beginning to make him dizzy, and cause his head to pound, which really wasn't aiding in his effort to walk a straight line -but back to the shoulder. Sherlock was pretty sure the bullet was still lodged in it- which hurt like a bitch by the way. Every step he took jarred it a bit, sending more pain throughout his aching, tired and battered body. This day really wasn't going how he'd hoped. But he just clenched his teeth and kept stumbling his way through back alleys of central London.

He eventually found himself at the all too familiar front door on Baker Street. How he ended up there, he couldn't tell you. He'd just been walking, yet somehow he always did find himself back at his front door. It was the one place he truly did feel safe, so he supposed it made since his subconscious would steer him in the right direction in times like these. That thought was comforting.

Blood slicked fingers fumbled with the keys trying to pull them from his pocket. It took a tick longer than he would have liked, but he managed all the same.

Once inside, he slowly stumbled up the steps, kicking the front door shut behind him. Only to have to repeat the process with the keys once more at reaching his and John's door. As he entered his flat, exhaustion griped him, dragging him down onto the small sofa, his feet partially hanging off the edge.

If he had a clear head and was thinking rationally, he would have went to Mrs. Hudson and had her call John. Well, probably, there really was no telling what Sherlock would do. His mind was clouded, dark and rainy, and he was pretty sure a few walls of his mind palace had been cracked and one may have completely fallen down. Which kind of pissed him off and kind of scared him.

So he lay there, bleeding on their sofa, cold and shaking like a leaf. He was almost positive the wound was minor, just his shoulder, he'd be fine. That was if he didn't loose too much blood first. Which was a _very_ strong possibility if he kept this up. But he really didn't want to get up, their sofa was _really_ comfortable.

He just hoped John would be home from the clinic soon. Otherwise he feared he may actually die of something as lame as a gunshot wound to the lousy shoulder. That's really not how he wanted to go out.

Sherlock was stirred from his thoughts by the sound of the front door opening, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps heading up to 221B.

The soft pounding in his head increased as the lights in the flat were suddenly flipped on. Squeezing his eyes shut against the harsh light, he couldn't suppress a groan of pain any longer.

"Sherlock!?" John wasn't sure weather or not to be surprised when Sherlock showed up worse for ware any more. It had been happening a bit much lately after all. But this really didn't look good.

"Hmmm?" He groaned and opened his eyes, taking a bit longer than usual for them to focus on John.

"Sherlock what happened?" John asked concerned for his friend, noticing the large patch of blood around his shoulder.

"Shot," he slurred, his eyes drooping shut. "Bad guy got away." Sherlock groaned. _Wow_, he thought, _way to sound five there Sherly._

He hadn't realized just how exhausted he really was. But now John was here, which meant he was safe, so it would be okay to sleep right? John would protect him. They were practically brothers, he would never let anything happen to him.

John sighed, this wasn't good. "Sherlock I need you to stay awake for me."

"I am awake," he mumbled. Of course John had to throw on the 'for me' bullshit. Knowing very well Sherlock couldn't just tell him no. Damn John, keeping Sherlock up like that.

Sherlock cried out when John started poking and prodding his shoulder. "Sherlock, I need to get your shirt off."

Sherlock simply nodded, his eyes shut tight. He bit his lip till it bled. Letting a small sigh escaped his lips as John finally got his shirt off.

"This doesn't look good Sherlock," John admitted, his own worry rising. "What the hell were you thinking?" He said not out of anger but concern. He knew Sherlock was pry thinking a gazilion things at once when this happened. He usually was. That brain of his never shut down.

But Sherlock of course misinterpreted it entirely. "Sorry John. Accident," he weakly apologised to his friend.

John sighed. "I know Sherlock, I know," he said, now upset with himself. Sherlock always did interpret things too literally. "I know you're not _that daft,_" he joked, a weak attempt to lighten the mood. Thankfully getting a small but weak smile out of him.

Sherlock looked up at his friend, "I have to go to hospital don't I?" He groaned as John nodded in response. "Hate hospitals."

"I think the bullet's still in there," John admitted. "If so, we need to get it out pronto. Don't want it getting infected now do we?"

Sherlock shook his head with a sigh. He knew for a fact the bullet was still in there. He could feel it scraping his most likely fractured, if not broken, shoulder blade. Making it almost impossible for him to move his left arm entirely.

"So," John started, gently lifting Sherlock into a sitting position, "am I calling an ambulance or your brother. I'd rather not bring you in a cab."

Sherlock sighed a bit dramatically, contemplating his choices. True, the cab driver probably wouldn't appreciate him getting blood all over his back seat. But then again, this was Baker Street, would any cab driver in these parts really be all that surprised? He was Sherlock Holmes, most of them knew him, and most knew how he was.

So random paramedics he really didn't trust, nor wish to. Or one of his brother's trusted private drivers.

"Go on and call Mycroft. He'll be quicker than some paramedic," Sherlock sighed.

John nodded, pulled out his phone, and quickly began dialing.

* * *

**Hope you liked it, I'm going to bed. It's 12:30 at night an I'm exhausted from leaving at 2am and getting roughly 4 hours of sleep in the last 38 hours. So yeah, review. Shoot me ideas, blah, blah, blah, good night.**


	6. Chapter 6: Jumped

**I partially wrote this sitting in Jersey and partially in a TGIFriday's in Delaware. I didn't know those even existed anymore! There aren't ANY back home in Kansas City. Sitting in it, I see why they're all closing...****  
****And then I finished this in D.C. It took awhile, so I hope you like it! It's a bit more dramatic than past chapters, I'm really not sure where this came from. I just had an idea in my head, and I ended up with this shit! So I really hope you like it.**

**Disclaimer: Public Domain. Nobod be a ownin' Sherly no mo!**

**Chapter 6: Jumped**

* * *

The last thing he could recall as he came to, was the distinct feeling of being socked in the side of the head. _Hard_. He could remember engaging in a hand to hand fight with an unfair number of criminals in one of the many back alleys of London, and then being bashed in the skull by something really hard.

But that didn't really matter now. Because now he was laying on the cold, wet ground in the dark, his head pounding. Glancing around with bleary eyes he came to the conclusion that he couldn't be too far from Scotland Yard. Maybe a mile. Was that were he was headed in the first place? Probably, it would only make since.

He was startled out of his wandering by a sudden raindrop plopping itself on his nose. He spared a glance up at the dark cloudy sky, the harsh wind wiping loose curls around his face. This was not the time for it to start raining.

Sherlock grit his teeth and gingerly attempted to push himself off the dirty, damp ground of the back alley. He gasped and cried out in surprise as a sudden sharp pain shot from his foot and up his leg. Causing the entire limb to scream out in protest. Reaching out blindly, he steadied himself on the rusty dumpster behind him. Funny, he hadn't even known it was there.

Glancing down at his foot in search for the cause of the unwelcome pain, he felt nauseous. It was one of those cases where it hurt, but you didn't realise just how much it hurt until you could actually _see_ the injury. And now that he was seeing it, it hurt a hell of a lot worse.

He was expecting bad, hell he woke up in a dark alley at night with a possible concussion, and from the way his face felt he could safely assume he had a few bruises as well, but this wasn't what he was expecting. A jagged piece of glass was simply protruding out the side of his foot, a pool of dried, crimson blood surrounding it.

Now why in bloody hell was he missing one shoe?

Sherlock swallowed thickly. He knew walking was inevitable, seeing as his jacket was missing, which held his phone, he was unable to call anyone for help. So he'd have to walk to find assistance. The closest being The Yard. He didn't trust the lot of them, but he did trust Lestrade. He just hoped the good Detective would still be there at this hour.

As he took his first actual step, more pain shot through his abdomen, causing him to blink back tears. He'd be damned if he, Sherlock goddamn bloody Holmes, was going to cry. He glanced down at his muddy and wrinkled white button down, just noticing the spreading blood stain. Must have been stabbed as well.

He carefully began to step forward, doing his best to stay on two feet and ignore the ridiculous amount of pain he was in. But every step shot excruciating pain to his nerve endings, causing for a very unpleasant experience. When he finally did make it out of the alley and to the street, the rain had picked up immensely.

Sherlock sighed and leaned against the cold brick building beside him to catch his breath. He'd be lucky if he didn't drown in the torrential down pour.

This was so not his day. John was going to kill him, he just knew it. That was of course if he even made it out of here.

Sherlock peered down the street and let out a sigh of relief. Apparently the sheet of pain lain over his being had muddled his mind more than he first suspected. He was much closer to Scotland Yard than he had initially thought. He could clearly see it up ahead. Maybe only a quarter of a mile away. Thank god, maybe this wasn't going to be so bad.

Scratch that last thought. This was going to be torment. Cruel torment designed by true evil. Only the Devil himself could think up such a cruel punishment. Yeah, he wasn't the greatest of people, but didn't putting away all those criminals atone for somethings?

Sometimes he really hated his job. For it could be the only real explanation for his current predicament.

It took a good while for Sherlock to make his way to the front door of good ol' Scotland Yard. When he did manage to push through with bloodied hands, he was immediately swarmed by officers. Everyone asking him if he was okay, he believed someone even called an ambulance. Someone that sounded an awful lot like Anderson. Now why the hell would Anderson care for Sherlock's health? That idea was a bit unnerving actually.

He could remember calling for Lestrade in his sudden daze, but he couldn't be sure if they heard him. His voice was hoarse and weak, barely above a whisper now. All he knew was that in seemingly a blink of an eye, Lestrade was magically there, right at his side. He could quite literally feel the relief flooding through him at seeing the DI.

Sherlock gripped the detective inspector by his blazer sleeve, allowing the older man to hold him up, almost completely supporting his weight. Not that that was so hard to do with Sherlock. "Lestrade," he mumbled as he was led to the Detective Inspectors desk where he was forced to sit down.

"Christ Holmes, what in the hell happened to ya?" Lestrade asked, worry cascading off him as he took in Sherlock's ragged appearance. Blood matted his hair from a head wound, which the rest of his face was splotched with a variety of colorful bruises.

"Jumped," he mumbled into his shoulder as the DI refused to release him, "I think." It was rare that Sherlock showed up at his office beaten and bloody, and he couldn't help but be concerned for him. He liked to think of them a friends, even though if someone asked Sherlock Lestrade's first name, he'd pry say Detective Inspector.

Sherlock jumped slightly, startled, as Lestrade ever so gently wiped a smudge of blood from his brow with a wet cloth. "You're decked in cuts and bruises," he remarked, a bit marveled by the prospect.

Sherlock gave a jerky nod -_thanks for stating the obvious, Lestrade_- his eyes slipping shut. He knew one really shouldn't sleep with a possible concussion, but he really didn't give a shit at this point in the day. He simply didn't have the energy to care.

"Go ahead Holmes. Sleep, the ambulance should be here any moment. And don't worry, Donavan phoned John already. He'll meet us at the hospital."

Sherlock gave a small nod and a barely noticeable sigh of relief. Somehow Lestrade understood that Sherlock wasn't going anywhere without his trusty doctor and companion. And knowing that he would soon be seeing his friend when he awoke, allowed the worn detective to slip away into a blissful, painless slumber.

Whoa, Whoa, wait! _Donovan_ phoned John!?

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**I hope you like it:) Its not as long as I'd like, but I have an idea I can't wait to use for the next chapter so I kinda rushed. All the same, I hope you enjoyed.****...Review...**


	7. Chapter 7: Happy Birthday!

**I started this at my condo and then partially wrote this on the subway.**  
**So this next chapter isn't something we'd necessarily consider a bad thing. But knowing Sherlock, who really knows, right? Once again, NO slash just slightly more bromance than usual:)**

**Disclaimer: I only dream of him being mine.**

**Chapter 7: Happy Birthday**

* * *

Sherlock nearly flew out of bed as John suddenly -and rather rudly- flung his door open shouting, "Sherlock! Get your lazy arse out of bed!"

Sherlock groaned and rolled over, turning his back to John and pulling the sheets with him, doing his best to ignore him. Damn John and his hyper awakness, why couldn't he just let him sleep? They had just closed a case, and this was usually the time when Sherlock's sleep deprived mind and body caught up to him.

"Go away John. Sleeping," he grumbled as he tried to fall back into his once peaceful slumber. But it wasn't working, not with John somewhat creepily lingering in his door way.

"Nope, no sleeping. You slept all night. Get up!" John insisted, pulling the covers right off Sherlock. Exposing his checkered pajama pants and socked feet.

Sherlock shot up into a sitting position and shot daggers with his eyes at his flat mate. His face screwed up in an expression of displeasure. Anyone else would be frightened by the detective, but not John. The ex-military man knew how to stand his ground, especially with this punk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, he knew there was no way he would win this. John was the one person who could actually get him to do things. All he wanted was sleep damn it!

"What John?" Sherlock asked in his clipped I-really-don't-have-time-for-this tone.

John smirked, "would you just get out of bed? The smallest things are like pulling teeth with you." He remarked, shaking his head. But he couldn't hide the small ammused smile pulling at his lips.

Sherlock glared as he watched John marched out of his room. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock complied to his wishes as slipped out of bed with all the grace of a jungle cat, and quickly followed John's path to their small kitchen. He couldn't deny he was a bit curious to what John was up to.

John smiled triumphantly to himself as Sherlock came into the kitchen, grumbling incoherently to himself the whole way. John's smile split into an all out grin as his friend looked up. "Happy birthday!" He shouted, his arms out wide.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise at the sudden revelation. He'd completely forgot about his birthday, was it really already the 6th? That case must have lasted longer than he'd originally thought, he didn't even remember the new year. Was that why John left, claiming he was going out for drinks with Lestrade a few nights ago? It would make since. But how the hell did John even find out? He wouldn't put it past Mycroft to tell him, but when was the last time John and Mycroft even spoke?

"I made breakfast," John said matter-o-factly. Pulling Sherlock from his puzzeled thoughts. And that John did. Their kitchen counter was spread out in eggs, bacon, muffins, toast, pancakes, basically every know breakfast food that John could seemingly get his hands on.

Sherlock deadpanned, "you always make breakfast." He didn't really know what else to say, no one had ever actually acknowledged his birthday before. Not since he was just a kid, and even then it was only his mother. Not even Mycroft bothered with him when they were boys.

"Yes, well, this is different. This is a birthday breakfast. Don't you ever expect me to cook this much damn food any other time." John said with a smile, handing Sherlock an old chipped china plate from the cabinet.

Sherlock gave him a small, awkward -yet genuine- smile. "Um, thanks John."

Now it was John's turn to be surprised. Sherlock rarely ever said thank you. Not really, John's heard it a few times, but every time it was just as surprising. Very few people even knew Sherlock possessed manners and even fewer ever heard him use them. He only let the very few he deemed special to him ever see that side of him.

"No problem, I figured later we could do something?" John offered doing his best to dismiss the thank you. "That is if Lestrade doesn't call of course. We could get dinner or something, I don't know. Whatever you'd like to do."

Sherlock smiled at John's awkwardness. He was trying to think of something nice to do, that didn't sound like they were going on a date. Sherlock rolled his eyes; figuring he could rescue his friend before he further embarrassed himself. "Sure John, just quit trying so hard before you hurt yourself."

John gave Sherlock a look before playfully socking him in the arm. "Shut up Sherlock," he grumbled.

Sherlock just grinned.

_Sociopath my ass_, he silently remarked, grinning at Sherlock. He wouldn't say anything to Sherlock, but he and Mycroft recently had a long talk why Sherlock was out investigating or whatever he did when he went out. And both knew Sherlock too well to ever believe he was a sociopath. Mycroft had explained to John that he was diagnosed with Aspergers when he was young. And John had to agree with the diagnosis.

BUT... there was always the possibility that Sherlock was just an ass of course.

* * *

**Hope you liked it! I'm not sure where this came from, but I really wanted to write it. I meant to do something all the way back in January for Sherlock's 158th birthday, but I kept forgetting. So here it is, Sherlock's birthday! Let's just pretend and say he's now 27 or something. Idk. Drop me a review and tell me what you thought would ya?****  
**


	8. Chapter 8: Beaten

**This chapter is a bit more serious than the last ones, I'm not sure how I did exactly with writing Mycroft, so... yeah. I hope you like it.**

**So I've officially worked this out in my head. I'm weird and couldn't concentrate until I figured it all out, so here's everyone's ages. **

**Sherlock- 27 John- 34 ( years older than Sherlock) Mycroft- 35 (8 years older than Sherlock) Lestrade- 41 Donovan- 32-ish.**

**BTW: this is a flashback chapter. Which means 16 year old Sherlock and 24 year old Mycroft. Hope you like it:)**

**Disclaimer: If I owned him, I wouldn't be on fanfiction now would I?**

**Chapter 8: Beaten**

* * *

He was tired, he was wet, and worse... he was on his brother's front door step. That's when he officially knew he was low, when he found himself coming to Mycroft for assistance. He felt ridiculous, standing there in the rain in the middle of the night. The sharp London air nipping at his nose as his wet hair dripped in his bruised and sunken face.

He just stood and stared at the old oak door in front of him. Mycroft had moved out little over five years ago and he was already working himself up the London food chain quite quickly. Rather well one might add. But Sherlock just felt small and out of place standing in the middle of such an expensive neighborhood in his soggy torn shirt and worn jeans.

He continued contemplating rather or not to actually knock, but before he got the chance to decide, it was pulled open, taking his decision away instantly.

"Brother," Mycroft stated in his monotone emotionless voice.

"Hello Mycroft," Sherlock bit his lip a bit embarrassed with the whole situation. "Can I come in?" He was ashamed by how weak his voice sounded. He was ashamed with himself.

Mycroft stepped aside, carefully eyeing his dripping wet and bruised faced little brother. "That would probably be best," he agreed. Closing the door behind him before any more rain could get in. He checked his brother from head to toe with non-judgemental eyes as the two approached the front room. Both taking their respected seats on the large expensive couch. So Mycroft was doing even better than Sherlock had thought.

"What did you do Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, breaking the almost unbearable silence that had enveloped the room and immediately cutting to the chaise. Not wasting any time on small talk.

"Me!?" Sherlock shouted back at his elder brother, immediately defending himself and loosing his ever so stoic exterior. "Father-"

"Yes, I know." Mycroft interrupted, putting up a hand. "But he only gets violent when you provoke him. You always did have a mouth on you."

"It's not my fault he drinks," Sherlock mumbled under his breath so Mycroft couldn't hear. But of course he did. His older brother was always one to defend their drunkard father.

"No." Mycroft started with a sigh. "If you must point blame, I suppose that would be mothers fault. But since you can't blame one for dieing..."

Sherlock unintentionally flinched at the mention of their mother. He wouldn't, nay, couldn't, deny he was a mommas boy. The two did nearly everything together, she was the light in young Sherlock's life. The only one who truly loved him, who excepted him and never tried to change him. Someone who never expected more than he could give out if him, yet still expected so much. Someone who believed in him. Someone their father could NEVER be.

Mycroft sighed and dragged a hand across his tiered face. It was late and he had intended on going to bed just before Sherlock showed up. "Alright, so what happened?"

Sherlock had at some point pulled his feet up on the couch, hugging them close in a protective manner. Ignoring how they put pressure in his fractured ribs and strained his breathing. He did his best to even his breathing, but Mycroft couldn't help but notice the hitch when he inhaled. And the dim lighting caused the dark rings under his eyes to show more, causing his cheek bones to jut out even more than usual. It also drew more attention to the large bruises spotted across his face and neck to pop out more. Contrasting against his naturally pale pallor.

Sherlock licked his busted and bloodied lips before speaking, "I'd rather not talk about it. Besides, I'm sure you already know, same as always. He'd been drinking, I got home late from school."

"Why were you home late?" Mycroft asked his beaten brother. "You're never late."

Sherlock scowled as he glared at the floor boards, unintentionally observing how clean they were. "It's nothing."

Mycroft glared at his brother. "Don't lie to me Sherlock. We're Holmes', it's _always_ something."

Sherlock sighed and relented, "fine. Some kids at school beat me up after class and it took awhile. Apparently that kind of thing takes some time. It's nothing, I'm fine."

Mycroft didn't like that. He knew Sherlock, and he knew that school. He was worried when they were younger that some of the older, tougher kids would single his brother out for being the smartest and youngest kid in class, but he thought Sherlock was doing fine. Straight A's, good teachers. Fine. Better than really.

Mycroft sighed, resigned. "Alright," he said as he stood from the stiff armchair, "you can stay the night here."

Sherlock's eyes widened just a fraction of an inch. He opened his mouth to speak but quickly realised he had nothing to say. So he settled for giving Mycroft a genuinely grateful look. Something close to a smile, but not quite there.

"You'll have to sleep on the couch, but I suppose it's better than going back to him." Mycroft said as he opened the linen closet and began tossing extra blankets and pillows towards Sherlock who caught them ever so gracefully.

"Thank you Mycroft," Sherlock managed as he set the blankets and pillows beside himself on the sofa.

Mycroft just nodded. "Of course, what else am I supposed to do? Send you back there, looking like _that_?" Mycroft shook his head, "I'll go fetch you some dry clothes. They may be a bit big, but you'll have to manage. Luckily you don't have school tomorrow so you don't have to worry about dressing for that at least."

Sherlock nodded and stared down at his hands. Intently glaring at his bloodied knuckles. He hadn't told Mycroft about him punching back this time. That that one punch had brought an even harder beating down on him than usual. But he suspected Mycroft knew. Mycroft always knew. His powers of deduction had always been better than Sherlock's. The only difference being that Sherlock openly used his, where Mycroft never would. Not in public, which was probably why he was never bullied in school. It seemed to Sherlock, the only time the brothers were able to truly be themselves was with each other.

"Goodnight Sherlock," Mycroft said as he began to head upstairs to his own bed, leaving the lamp beside the couch on for Sherlock to see as he made his bed on the sofa. "Don't stay up thinking too late."

Sherlock gave him a small grateful smile as he gently rubbed his sore knuckles. "Yeah, goodnight."

* * *

**I hope you liked it. I did. I'm not sure where this came from, it was a bit more serious than usual. But still, I just kind of felt like a teen Sherlock and Mycroft was needed. Can't find enough of those. Actually if any of y'all know of one, tell me! I want to read it!****  
****Thanks again! Love you guys! Drop me a review and tell me what ya thought or request a chapter:)****  
**


	9. Chapter 9: Explosion

**I'm finally home. Thank God! I am exhausted. It's odd how little sleep one gets on vacation.**

**I hope you all like this chapter. It took awhile and I'm satisfied with it. I've been really working on making it less choppy and more mature I suppose. I think I did good. And I've noticed my chapters are becoming slightly more serious as I go. It's accidental but not bad I suppose:)**

**Chapter 9: Explosion**

* * *

"I don't see what the big deal is John," Sherlock practically wined with an exasperated sigh thrown in for good measure. "I think you're overreacting."

John rolled his eyes as he strolled alongside the taller man, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "You would," he scoffed a bit amused. "And I'm not overreacting, I'm just a little tired of finding severed body parts in the fridge."

"Well were else am I supposed to put them?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. Seriously, it was like he was talking to a wall sometimes.

"I don't know! Get a separate fridge; just don't keep them by the milk." John couldn't keep from smiling anymore, Sherlock really didn't understand why someone wouldn't want severed fingers sitting beside their food. Sometimes the brilliant detective didn't seem quite so brilliant.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and stuffed his fists in his pockets, unintentionally matching John. Just seemingly a bit more pouty. "Did you bring your gun?" Sherlock aquestioned, glancing down at his shorter friend.

"Of course," John replied easily. He'd learned long ago that it was best to carry a weapon on him when going off with either one of the Holmes brothers. Specifically Sherlock, as after all he was the more adventurous of the two.

The two continued on their way down the boating docks of the warehouse off the shore of London in search for their criminal. They'd arrive a little over a few minutes ago after Sherlock bribed a local fisherman for a ride on his small and rusty motor boat. Only problem was that they had no sure way back to the mainland.

Sherlock believed that once they had successfully apprehended their culprit, a quick call to DI Lestrade should get them a ride rather nicely. But John saw one small yet important flaw this plan of Sherlock's.

They couldn't find their criminal.

"So what happens exactly if our suspect _isn't_ here?" John ventured. It was a slid question that needed answering.

Sherlock paused momentarily and somewhat stumbled over his own long legs. "Don't be ridiculous John, of course he's here. Why wouldn't he be?" He sounded more as though he was trying to convince himself rather than John.

John just shrugged. He really didn't have an answer to that one. But he figured the question wasn't 'why wouldn't he be' but more of 'why would he be.' So he just kept quiet and followed alongside Sherlock, keeping an eye open for their convict.

John nearly jumped when Sherlock suddenly put his arm up in front of him, smacking him in the gut. "You see that?" He asked, sounding much like an excited child.

John immediately perked up, "no. What?"

Before John could get a reply out him, Sherlock took off at a dead sprint down the dock, his long legs taking him far. The old wood creaking beneath his worn dress shoes. Why he wore those damn things everywhere was beyond John. He was surprised the old things still had any traction left on them.

It all happened so fast. John was about to chase after Sherlock as he ran after what John could only assume was the criminal they had come for. But he was too late, all he could do was watch as the entire dock seemingly shook beneath him as a mass explosion sounded through the lonely London night.

John watched in captivated horror as the side of the building exploded, debris and wood tearing through the previously stagnant air. John could only assume Sherlock had tripped a wire in his hast.

It seemed to happen in the blink of an eye, one moment Sherlock was running, the next; he was being flung through the air by the sheer force of the blast. That was before everything went black.

When he came to, Sherlock found himself lying on the cold, hard ground. Fire quickly spreading around him, it's bright flames burning in the dark night. He glanced around with wide eyes, his heart hammering painfully in his chest and his ears ringing. But he barely noticed. His head pounded fiercly as he tried to focus his racing thoughts. The primary though at the moment being a mix of utter surprise and confusion. The next being the question of where could John be?

Was he hurt?

Was he even alive?

Sherlock attempted to sit up to search for his commrad so to answer his many questions, but found the task much harder than he remembered it being. Somewhere in his jumbled head the thought that he must have been out for at least a few minutes formed. For the fire around him wasn't blazing fiercely, but slowly dieing out. As though the explosion had occurred some time ago.

That didn't seem good to Sherlock. He couldn't see John from where he lay, barely conscious. Which worried him, he had to know that the man was alright. That he was alive.

He tried to call out, but failed to find his voice. He still couldn't hear properly, just the muffled sounds of the old wood burning and faint police sirens. At least Lestrade was on top of things, that was one positive thought.

He attempted one more time to sit up, but fell back to the ground helplessly as a sharp pain seared through his chest causing his back to arch in agony, obstructing his breathing. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he'd broken a few ribs, which resulted in a punctured lung which would explain the pained breathing. Well this was surly not going to be very fun.

He laid his head back, closing his eyes and took several slow, measured breaths. Each one with a small painful hitch. He really wished his doctor was here just about now. But unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen. For he knew Watson could be in much the same state as himself just about now. If not worse.

He immediately recognized the signs of shock as his limbs began to shake involuntarily. He also recognized that his body was about to quit on him in about a few seconds. His last thought being that he had to get to John, he couldn't leave without John.

* * *

Hospitals. Sherlock hated hospitals. So why the hell was he waking up in one? He couldn't remember a thing, let alone how he ended up in his least favorite place in London.

And... cue headache.

Sherlock moaned and opened his eyes, blearily glancing around the hospital room. Unsurprisingly, it was like any other. white walls, white ceiling, and a ridiculously strong stench of cleaning supplies. God, he hated hospitals.

"Look who's awake," Lestrade smiled as he came through the door, arms out wide.

Sherlock moaned in a mixture of pain and annoyance. "Shut up Lestrade."

Lestrade simply laughed and pulled up a chair beside the detectives bed. Sherlock watched him sit out of the corner of his eye carefully, noticing that he'd changed his clothes since he last saw him. Indicating he'd been unconscious for at least a day. He only wished he remembered why.

"How long have I been out?" Sherlock croaked, his throat was killing him.

"A few days, three to be exact."

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed sigh. "I don't even remember what happened," he admitted.

"That would most likely be due to the concussion you received in the blast."

"Blast?" He didn't like the sound of that.

"Explosion. That dock you and John went searching for the suspect on was rigged with some pretty powerful explosives."

And that's when it hit Sherlock. "John! Where's John?" He insisted, sitting up in his cot.

"Relax," Lestrade insisted, putting a hand on his chest. Sherlock reluctantly obeyed and laid back down "He's fine. A little bruised up but better than you at the moment."

Sherlock nodded, already feeling a bit better.

"His worst injury is a fractured wrist. Where as you've got a concussion, broken arm and three broken ribs which resulted in a punctured lung." Lestrade informed him with a small smirk. "Congratulations Sherlock, you've managed to do it again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "shut up Lestrade."


	10. Chapter 10: Anxiety Attack

**Sorry for the long delay, I was working on this but left town w/out my laptop before I could finish and I never upload** **on anything but MY laptop. But I write a whole lot! Since the last few chapters have been kind of bleh, I shall give you emotions! Kind of...**

**ALSO,**

**Dear lovely readers who have stuck with this story, I have a challenge for you:****I want you to find me a teen! Sherlock OR Sherlock Holmes fanfic. One with either Lestrade or Mycroft as well is preferred. And I'm oddly fond of abused Sherlock, it just seems like such a believable childhood for him. Whoever finds me the best one can request a one-shot for any of the fandoms listed on my profile. All you have to do is tell me bout a story in your review, and if I absolutely love it, I'll PM you and you simply PM me back with your requested story. And... GO!**

* * *

**Chapter 10: Anxiety Attack**

Sherlock carefully watched the people go about their busy lives around him as he followed John as they weaved through the isles of the super market -it was like a maze of sorts. A place he usually avoided at all costs. It was crowded and painfully noisy, each sound echoing and vibrating in his head and pounding behind his eye sockets giving him the mother of all headaches.

His fingers twitched nervously at his sides as he slunk closer to John. Earning him a funny look from his older friend. Not knowing what to do with his fidgety hands, he settled for stuffing them deep in his pockets and giving an aggravated sigh.

This was stupid.

He shouldn't be so bothered by a place as mundane as the grocery store. But fact of the matter was that he was, always had been. The place drove him positively mad, as did a number of other public places. To list merely a few: amusement parks, movie theatres,_ high schools_.

Sherlock jumped, getting close enough to John that they were touching shoulder to shoulder as several people came pushing past, barely brushing up against Sherlock. He just wished he could disappear. That he could be anywhere else.

"You okay?" John asked concerned for the detective. Sherlock was always so composed, yet he was acting the complete opposite. The cool calm demeanour he usual wore was beginning to look more like a frightened child.

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm... fine." He replied distractedly, trying to shield his anxiety ridden face behind his flipped up coat collar and new burgundy scarf John bought him for his birthday earlier that year.

John just nodded and continued his shopping. Moments later Sherlock was no where in sight when John turned around.

* * *

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and pent up emotions he didn't know he had inside of him as he slumped against the refreshingly cool brick wall outside the local super market. His heart beating double time against his chest so painfully that if he didn't know better, he'd think it was about to beat right out of his chest. But he knew John would tell him how completely ridiculous and impossible that was Along with a number if other medical technobabble.

He took slow measured, calming breaths. Relishing in the relaxing, cool, London night air, watching his breath condensate in front of him. It was late November and a thin layer of snow lined the side-walks, small snow flurries lightly falling from the cloudy sky. He watched as one landed directly on his now frozen nose.

Rubbing a shaky hand down his tired face he tried to compose himself. He hated when this happened. Especially when it happened in front of people like John. People he never wanted to see him weak.

After giving himself half a moment he checked his watch. Nine PM.

Sherlock cursed under his breath and pushed himself away from the icy wall. He'd been out there for quite a while. John would get worried if he wasn't home soon. He always did have a tendency to overreact.

Pulling his coat tight and fixing his scarf, Sherlock began to make his way back to the road to catch a cab. There was no way he was going to walk home in this weather. And a busy people filled street was not what he needed right now.

Sherlock stood by the street, the cold wind wiping at his dark curls. Hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets in search for warmth. It was barely light out, the lonely sun just visible over the city skyline.

* * *

Sherlock slammed the door to 221B behind him as he sauntered into their flat. Collapsing on the plush sofa.

Officially his favourite piece of furniture.

He shut his eyes trying to relax. He was physically and mentally exhausted. Anxiety attacks always did take the best out of him.

John came into the living room at the sound of Sherlock coming home. Hot, steaming mug of tea in his hand. "I was wandering were you'd gotten off to," he commented, assessing Sherlock from head to toe with a critical doctor's eye to make sure he didn't have any visible injuries. Funny how Sherlock coming home late lead John to instinctively believe him to be injured these days.

"Hmm," Sherlock mumbled into the union jack pillow; laying face down on the couch. All he wanted was sleep.

"You okay?" John asked. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he was worried when Sherlock rushed out of the store. It was uncharacteristic of him.

"I'll be fine. Just got a little crowded in there is all, needed a breather." He lied easily, looking up at John. "I'm fine John, really. Find someone else to mother hen."

Sherlock watched as John simply shook his head and took a seat beside him in his chair. Leaving Sherlock silently grateful for John's presence. He always felt safer with him close by. You know, just in case Sherlock needed anyone shot or anything any time soon.

Sherlock yawned, content for now, and pulled the blanket draped over the back of the couch over himself. He half expected for John to comment and say how that blanket was made for decoration, not snuggling up with. But receiving nothing of the like, Sherlock mentally shrugged it off and curled up, closing his eyes.

He was sound asleep, snoring softly, within a matter of just a few seconds.

* * *

**Thanks y'all. Hopefully the next chap will be up soon. Sorry this was so short, next one'll be longer. Hopefully.**

**Now go find me a good teenage Sherlock fanfic:)**


	11. Chapter 11: Drowned

**I'm SO sorry that this is late! OMG I'm such a bad person! But I got distracted with life. Haha! Okay, that's a lie! (What life?!)**

**I hope you like this one. I've really been wanting to do this story for a while but couldn't quite figure out how to. So this is, no joke, my sixth version. I hope everyone likes it.**

**And remember, you can request anything. Even if it's not full on whump, just Sherlock being Sherlock.****Chapter **

**11- Drowned**

* * *

Sherlock gulped but kept his head held high, the wind tossing his dark curls about every which way, as he was roughly shoved closer to the edge of the cliff. Peering over the edge, Sherlock could roughly see the ominous blue of the Thames beneath the sudden drop off. Taking a chance look over his shoulder he was met with the cold, stern gaze of the three criminals behind him. He refused to show weakness in front of these bastards.

This day had gone completely in the opposite direction he had expected or hopped. He had a relativily average good morning, woken up early, actually ate breakfast. A nice homemade breakfast by the lovely Miss Hudson at that.

Yet here he was now. Being led to his death by a group of convicts who had gotten the upper hand on him for barely a moment. In seemingly the blink of an eye they had him pinned and chloroformed. When he came to he was in the the back of an old, smelly van. Bound and gagged. His lip was busted and bleeding, his eye was swollen from a rough punch and his hair was damp with blood.

And here he stood now, hands cuffed behind his back being led to his certain death. Only the great Sherlock Holmes could get himself into a situation such as this before noon.

He was stirred from his musing from a rough shove to his back, causing him to stagger forward. Tripping over his long, clumsy legs. Getting uncomfortably close to the cliff face.

"Uh," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Can't we talk about this?" Sherlock feebly attempted to reason with his captors. And honestly, he hadn't the slightest idea as to who these people were, but he could only assume he'd wronged them in some way at some point in his ridiculously complicated life. And Hell, he wasn't even thirty!

"I mean, you clearly know who I am. Yet I can't even begin to fathom who you are. So-"

"Shut up Mr. Holmes!" One of the thugs, a tall well-fit man with tattoos down both meaty arms barked. Effectively cutting him off.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. So stalling was gonna be a tad bit more difficult than he'd anticipated. Oh well, it wasn't as if the day wasn't already super sucky.

Sherlock watched in silent horror as two of the thugs held him by his cuffed arms while their comrade effortlessly tethered a 75 pound weight to the chains binding his ankles. He found it oddly fascinating; the ideas these criminals came up with these days. They were getting more and more morbidly creative. And this was truly a knew one.

"Really?" Sherlock questioned condescendingly. "You're planning to_ throw_ me in the river?" Sherlock shook his head. Wow, he was really screwed. And slightly impressed, but decided to keep that to himself.

"Not only are we planning to, we're _going_ to." The thug smirked as he finished fastening the weight to his chains.

Sherlock gulp and laughed nervously. "Heh. Well I'm afraid that may not work out to well on your part."

"And what do you mean by that?" The same thug asked, Sherlock assumed he was their leader of sorts. He was clearly in charge, and clearly the brains behind the operation. The other two were just that: thugs. They were the muscle.

Sherlock cursed under his breath. Shit! He was completely winging it at this point and really didn't know for sure how he'd get out of the situation. Gathering the remainder of his dignity and courage he took a leap. "Well the police know I'm here for starters. I'm sure they'll be here any moment. In fact..." Sherlock smirked and silently thanked a god he didn't believe in. "I believe I hear them now."

Sherlock briefly reveled in the flash of worry that ran across his captor's face. But it didn't last long.

At their bosses signal the thugs behind him suddenly yanked him back and tossed him off the cliff face.

Sherlock gasped in surprise as be fell back.

It was roughly a hundred foot drop, give or take, before he hit the water hard with a resounding smack. Sherlock's breath flew right out of him as he was thrown into the icy depths of the Thames. He instinctively thrashed about as he sank deeper and deeper into the seriously deep water. His only relief was that he luckily landed in a rather shallow patch of the massive river. So yeah, it could have been worse.

Sherlock wriggled in his cuffs and did his best to pull free. It was a weak and useless attempt. There was no getting out of this one.

He could feel the fight slowly draining out of him the more he struggled. _John is going to be pissed_, he thought before everything inevitably went dark.

* * *

Sherlock rolled onto his side, painfully spitting up the amount of Thames that had made its way into his lungs. His chest burned and his heart beat a samba against his ribs. His head pounding its own beat as well.

Rolling over onto his back Sherlock moaned in utter pain. Was someone calling his name? He thought he heard something.

There it was again. It sounded oddly like John. But why would John be here? Where exactly was 'here' anyway? Whatever it was, it was distracting.

"Sherlock? Sherlock come on I need you to wake up," a tauntingly familiar voice called.

Sherlock coughed as someone gently sat him up. His head swam at the sudden change in gravity, causing him to bend over and hack up just a little more of the great river.

He carefully cracked and eye open and looked around for the source of the voice. Noticing in the process that he was now leaning against the ledge of a boat.

"Sherlock?" John called, suddenly entering Sherlock's view.

Sherlock blinked rapidly as John's face came into his field of vision. Lestrade and Donovan hovering over each of John's shoulders.

"Hay, you okay?" John asked worriedly. Immediately berating himself for the stupid question.

Sherlock groaned and carefully massaged his aching chest. "Did you preform CPR on me?" He asked, his voice cracking and brows knit into a tight scowl from the pain.

John was a little surprised by Sherlock's question. It really wasn't your typical drowning victim question. But this was Sherlock after all so he really shouldn't be surprised. But none the less, John blushed slightly, a bit embarrassed. "Well, um, you were drowning. So..."

Sherlock coughed, breaking the awkward silence that fell. "John?"

"Hmm?"

Sherlock sheepishly held his bound hands up to John. "I'm still cuffed..."

John jumped into action. "Oh! Yes, right of course! Lestrade?"

Lestrade was quickly at Sherlock's side, making quick work of the cuffs. "There you are. We should make it to shore in a few more minutes. Just hang in there Holmes."

Ignoring the detectives worry, Sherlock sighed and lent back against the wall of the boat, gingerly rubbing at his sore wrists. Great, one more thing to add to the list of body parts that currently hurt. "Am I good to fall asleep?"

John nodded, "go for it. I'll wake you when we get there."

Sherlock was out in a matter of minutes.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading. Please review. It means a lot. Plus I update faster with the more reviews I get. I need motivation guys! I need to know that someone's still reading this! So review!**


	12. Chapter 12: Home Invasion

**Here you go, chapter twelve!****  
****To any Doctor Who fans, check out my new fic, After The Storm. It's mainly the Master and The Doctor(11th). Featuring some Torchwood. With quite a bit of classic DW references. So, yeah...**

**Prothoe: *Bows* As always, thank you so much. I absolutely love your enthusiastic reviews. I just love that your loving it^-^**

**Random: Thanks! BTW I am so gonna use your idea in the next chapter.**

**Ashtrees: Why thank you my dear!**

**JillianWatson1058: Thank you my friend.**

**Any-ways... Enjoy!**

**Chapter 12: Home Invasion**

* * *

When John arrived home late -due to an extra long, extra stressful day- he was not in the best of moods. He was positively exhausted and just wanted a hot cup of tea and a nice relaxing night in front of the telly. But of course life just couldn't be that simple, not as long as Sherlock was in it.

The first thing he noticed when he got home was that the door to 221B was wide open. From the busted lock John could confidently assume it had been forced open. Never a good sign. Either Sherlock forgot his key -again- or something bad had happened.

Sherlock could faintly hear the sound of the door opening downstairs as somebody came in from the harsh winter winds. Silently praying it was John arriving home from the clinic, either that or the lovely Mrs. Hudson. Though John would be preferred considering.

"John?!" Sherlock called out, curiosity overriding caution.

Upon hearing Sherlock's strained voice call for him, John quickly ran up the steps to 221B two at a time. Pushing past the pre-opened door, John was met with a rather amusing sight. In the middle of their flat, sitting in front of their sofa to be precise, sat Sherlock. Bruised and bleeding with his ankles tied and wrists bound behind his back.

Their entire flat was in a state of disarray. Papers and books from the shelf strewn about. The shelf itself nearly destroyed. The tea table no longer in its place but thrown across the room where it landed upside own. The few mugs that had been left on it were now shattered and scattered about the sitting room. The most disturbing aspect, John found, being their rather expensive television that now had a spear protruding from the flatscreen.

"I take it you had an eventful day," John commented with a raised eyebrow and a slight smirk. Only slightly disappointed that he missed out on all the action and slightly angered by the fact that their flat looked as if it was hit by a bloody tornado!

But putting that aside...

Sherlock halfheartedly glared at John, though not really all that upset. Besides, it was hard to look threatening when you're all tied up on your sitting room rug with a busted lip, bloody nose, and black eye. He supposed all he really did look was deadbeat tired.

John sighed, exasperated, and strode over to Sherlock, sitting back on his heels to inspect his friend. "What did you do Holmes?" He wondered aloud as he gave Sherlock a once over.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "I do believe I am the victim in this, therefore it can't possibly be my own fault. Besides, it's not as if I invited them over."

John snickered, "no but you may as well of. " He commented, making his way into the kitchen and rummaging through the draws for a knife.

"And just what are you implying John?" Sherlock demanded, glaring as John reentered the sitting room, a stake knife in hand.

John only shook his head and smiled. "We'll you have become rather popular among criminals these days. It shouldn't come as a surprise that one would actually show up at the flat."

"One?! Oh believe me John it was more than just one. I could have easily handled just one." He grumbled in a feeble attempt to preserve what little self dignity remained at this point.

John bent down beside Sherlock. "How long have you been sitting here like this?" Be asked curiously.

Sherlock actually had to think about that for a moment. "Well I suppose that would depend on what time it is now."

"Five Forty."

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction of an inch. "Really?" He marveled under his breath. "We'll I suppose that would explain why my butts gone numb," he said smiling up at John. "I'm not sure exactly when they tied me up, but I do know it was before noon. So I'd say about seven hours, give or take."

John blinked a few times, simply staring at Sherlock. "So I'm guessing your hands have gone numb."

Sherlock nodded innocently.

John took a deep breath and scooted behind Sherlock. Preparing to cut him loose. "This is gonna sting when I cut you loose."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, John I know, just cut me loose already!"

John nodded and without warning, carefully cut the rope binding Sherlock's wrists. Sherlock hissed and jerked his hands in front of him, rubbing the aching and bruised flesh. He'd have rope burn for at least a week.

John took the liberty to cut Sherlock's ankles free as well while the man in question was distracted with his wrists. Taking note that Sherlock was wearing pink socks. Where he got such socks, John may never know. In fact he wasn't too sure he wanted to.

"You okay?" He asked.

Sherlock looked up at John, giving him a weak smile. "Yes, I suppose I'll make it. Thank you by the way. For a moment there I thought I was going to be here all day."

John was a bit surprised by Sherlock's gratitude but decided to brush it off. "You basically where," he said taking Sherlock's hand and helping him to his feet. "Funny thing is I was actually supposed to get off early today. If that had happened I would have been home before lunch and you would have only had to sit there for roughly two hours or so."

Sherlock glared, "I for one fail to see the humor in that."

John actually laughed despite himself.

* * *

**Wow, um, sorry that was a little short. I'll try and make the next longer. But I did type this in one night so I know it's not the best. Plus I was distracted watching old Doctor Who episodes. I'm hooked on the fifth Doctor. He's just so damn lovable. I'll try and update soon. Remember to review:)**


	13. Chapter 13: Help?

**This chapter is dedicated to a guest reviewer called Random. I hope this satisfies. Personally, I love it -I should do John POV more often. So I hope you like it too.****  
****Honestly, writing John is SO easy, it just flows faster. Pry cus I don't have to think of smart sounding things for Sherlock's mind. Honestly, to make myself sound smart I usually just quote Doctor Who. Saying things like, "reverse the polarity of the neutron flow", and whatnot.**

**BTW: I made Sherlock a boxer because that's canon. So, yeah.**

**Also, let me know if you'd like a chapter with Miss Mary Morstan.**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter Thirteen- Help?**

* * *

John was having a normal, average bleak winters day at the clinic. In other words, it was positively boring. He'd arrived at nearly six in the morning when he got a call saying they needed more doctors stat. And seeing as he was overqualified for the job, he was usually the first one to get called in for emergencies. But the emergencies soon became less and less urgent.

In fact, by noon, there was hardly anyone coming in at all. So John had retreated to his office where he nearly fell asleep several times. Each time to be woken up by the same stupidly loud sparrow that decided it needed to build its nest right on his windowsill in the middle of winter. Why was it even there!? For once, John wished Sherlock would call or text claiming he needed his assistance on a new case. Any case! John would take mortgage fraud over this! Not that they ever handled mortgage fraud, but still. The day had become so mundane so quickly he'd gone through nearly four cups of coffee in just the past hour and a half alone and resulted to doodling in the margins on his paperwork just to give his mind something to focus on.

To say the least, it wasn't helping. Honestly, the one time he actually wanted Sherlock to call, he wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't. Because Sherlock simply had the worst timing humanly possible. John sometimes questioned if he was, in fact, human.

Deciding that mentally cursing his best friend wasn't going to get him anywhere in the boring ass life he suddenly found himself living, he decided to put his energy into something more productive. Paperwork!

Wow, when had life turned to this? Just last week he was running the streets with Scotland Yard's finest. And now... Well, you get the point.

John tossed his pen down haphazardly and rested his elbows on his desk. He sighed and tiredly rubbed at his eyes -as if he could simply wipe the sleep away. Yeah, no. It wasn't that easy. And all the damn paperwork was giving his hand cramps and a bloody headache.

Stupid job.

Stupid Sherlock.

John was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of his cellular spasming in his drawer as it received a text. John quickly pulled the cheep drawer open, nearly ripping it right out of the desk, and snatched his iPhone. A bit too enthusiastic to have a distraction.

**U stl at wok -SH**

John scowled at the screen, feeling undecided as he practically glared at the messy text message. Okay so when did Sherlock become to lazy to spell out 'still' and 'work'? Really, how hard was it to add another letter or so?

Shaking his head and dismissing it as Sherlock simply being his unpredictable self he text back.

**Unfortunately. Since u haven't taken any cases I'm stuck here till we can pay the bills -JW**

John set his phone down and tried to go back to his work. Which, no thanks to Sherlock was nearly impossible now. He couldn't help but hope he had a case for them. But he knew it was pry nothing, he probably just wanted him to pick some strange item up from the market on his way home is all.

After five minutes had came and went with no word from Sherlock, John had officially given up all hope on getting out of work early. He'd just have to face his impending doom.

But life with Sherlock was never that easy.

A sudden clatter outside his office drew his attention away from the paperwork. Again. It sounded like yelling. A new patient maybe. It wasn't often they had a crazy one, but hay, this was the bid city. They were lurking everywhere, you just had to know where to look. In John's case it would usually be a bedroom over.

John's bland grey door suddenly came flying open, bouncing back off the wall from the force. Probably leaving a decent sized dent in the behind.

John jumped to his feet, sending his rolle-y chair wheeling back, surprised by the sudden intrusion. If it was any other patient, John pry would have been mad. But this wasn't a patient that had so rudely came barging in his office.

This was Sherlock Holmes.

John's jaw dropped involuntarily at the sight before him. "Oh my god,_ Sherlock_!"

Sherlock's eyes were wide and bloodshot as he supported himself with one arm against the door frame. "John, help?"

John came rushing around his desk, just in time to catch the detective as he fell.

The young red headed nurse stood frantically in the doorway. "Dr. Watson, I'm so sorry! He just came barging in here-"

"It's fine, he's a friend," John quickly explained to the new girl. For the life of him he couldn't remember her name.

John swallowed his nerves and inspected his friend that now lay half conscious in his arms. His jaw was bruised and cut, as was his nose -which was also bleeding and coated in already dried blood. His forehead had a a few cuts as well. Dark, purplish bruises expanded down his arms and from what John could see past his torn shirt, his collar bone too.

This didn't look good.

"My god Sherlock, what in bloody hell happened to you?" John breathed, truly bewildered.

"Well, long story really. Basically you shouldn't start fights in the boxing ring John," Sherlock attempted to give John his best reassuring smile, but it came off as more of a wince really. Only adding to John's concern.

Sherlock feebly pushed John off him and attempted to stand. Using his closed fist to steady himself on the scratchy carpet.

"Wow, um, Sherlock- any idiot could have told you that." John shook his head and kneaded his forehead. _Really Sherlock, really?_

Sherlock shot him a look. "Yeah? Well, he provoked me."

"And yet you're the one who's sitting on my office floor bleeding."

"Oh shut up John," Sherlock mumbled leaning back against John's desk, he was _exhausted_. Though he knew John was right, it probably was his fault. In fact, he knew he was. He was just too damn stubborn to ever admit that to anyone.

"Okay, stay here, I'm gonna go fetch some bandages, gauze, disinfectant and whatever the hell else you need. Just, _don't go anywhere_." With that, John rushed from the small office to gather the needed supplies.

When he returned, he found Sherlock with his legs stretched out in front of him, leaning against the desk. He looked younger when he was like this. Sure the black eye and other accessories made him look a big gruff, but at the same time he looked like just a kid.

John tossed the med kit down beside Sherlock with a thud, quickly sitting down beside him as well. "Hay, no sleeping. You could have a concussion," he insisted.

Sherlock moaned in irritation and turned his head to glare at John. His eyelids drooping.

John quickly got to work bandaging Sherlock up. Having to snap his fingered in his face a few times to keep him awake. He was on the edge of consciousness and about to tip over.

"Why'd you come all the way over here?" John asked after a few moments of companionable silence. "The boxing club's closer to the Yard, you could have gone there. I'm sure Greg would have helped you."

Sherlock scowled at John. "Okay, so since when has Detective Lestrade been _Greg_?"

"That's his name you dumb oaf," John shot back hoping Sherlock got the playful edge in his tone. He did have a tendency to take things rather literally.

The edges of Sherlock's mouth tugged into a small smirk. "Really? Because I've known him since I was nineteen and I never once called him that."

"Probably because he wouldn't let you. No DI wants some kid that as high as a kite calling him by his first name." John couldn't help but laugh.

"Oh shut it Watson. Besides, you know why I came here." Sherlock said, inspecting John's handiwork as he finished bandaging his cut and bloody shoulder.

John raises an eyebrow, "no I don't think I do."

Sherlock squirmed a bit, uncomfortable. He didn't think he'd actually have to explain himself to John. "I'd pick you over _Greg_ any time. You're practically my brother, more so than my actual brother." Sherlock explained, avoiding John's eyes. He wasn't used to expressing his feelings and it made him feel a little awkward sitting in John's office talking about _feelings_ of all things.

John just stared for a moment, taking in Sherlock's words and examining his behavior. Using the deduction skills Sherlock himself had taught him to use over the short years they'd known each other.

Satisfied, John nodded. "Alright."

"What do you mean _alright_?" Sherlock asked suspiciously. Always the paranoid one.

John shrugged. "Just alright, I feel ya."

Sherlock still just stared, slightly confused now.

John shook his head and smirked, sometimes Sherlock was such an idiot. He punched him lightly in his non-wounded arm and all out smiled. "You're my brother too Sherlock."

* * *

**Bromance!**

**I hope you liked it, please review!**

**I'm thinking of doing a more depressing chapter next. Still not decided. Let me know how you feel about introducing Mary into a story or two.**


	14. Chapter 14: Women

**I'm happy. I freaking love you guys and your massive tilde wave of reviews. They make me smile.**

**And I don't know if anyone noticed, but for some reason I keep making the setting the middle of winter. I really like winter:) Summer sucks. But no worries, I'm making it spring now! Yea!**

**This chapter has to do with Mary -just saying. I don't ship John & Sherlock and I personally adore Mary so I threw her in. BUT, this can be looked at as slash still for Johnlock shippers. Just read, you'll find out.**

**Hope you like it!**

**Chapter 14: Women**

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. He'd been leaning in the hall doorway carefully examining John from a safe distance since he'd gotten home from the clinic. Something was off about him this evening. But what could it possibly be? Sherlock simply couldn't help but wander.

John sighed and rolled his eyes, sinking deeper on the couch. "How long do you suspect you'll be standing there?"

Sherlock straightened up, clearing his throat. That's right, John was a bit more observant than the rest of the bleak people in the world. A side effect of hanging around the Holmes' too often. Stuffing his hands in his pockets Sherlock casually strode over to John, stopping awkwardly beside the couch.

John glared up at the taller man towering over him, no use in even trying to watch the evening news anymore. "You wanna sit down?" He asked a bit annoyed. He'd had a rough night and hanging around with Sherlock really wasn't helping in the slightest. Wasn't really his fault, Sherlock just had a certain air about him. He wasn't really the comforting type.

Sherlock shook his head with wide eyed innocence, "nope."

John sighed and ran weary hand down his face. Might as well just let Sherlock be Sherlock, that man was positively incorrigible.

Sherlock pursed his lips as if to say something before realizing he -for once- had nothing to say. He wasn't an expert on the matter that plagued John this evening. Nor did he care to ever be.

"You know," John started, "I've known Mary for well over a month now, and all tonight did was remind me of how little I actually _know_ her." John remarked.

Sherlock just continued to watch his flat mate curiously. He just didn't understand what John saw in the woman. She was just that, some woman. What made her special? The worst part of it all, in Sherlock's eyes, was that John never would have known her if it weren't for him. She was just another reporter in the crowd that swarmed them whenever they left Scotland Yard after a successful case. And unfortunately the unsuccessful ones as well.

From what Sherlock could tell, John's date didn't go as he wanted. He'd been stuck on that Mary Morstan for a month now and she'd finally said yes. Of course John was ecstatic all up until he got home. Sherlock wasn't sure of the details, nor did he really care for them. He had all the information he needed just by the defeated look on John's face.

Sherlock sighed and plopped down beside his best friend on the couch. "Women."

John huffed a laugh, "you have no idea."

Sherlock laughed along with him. A small smile growing on his lips. John was right for the most part, he hadn't the slightest idea in women. At least not the same way as John. There was always the ever allusive Miss Irene Adler playing at the back of Sherlock's mind of course. And that woman was all kinds of trouble and confusion.

* * *

**Super short. But don't worry, the next will pry be super long. My inspiration for this was the song Trouble. It's been stuck in my head. Get it out!**

**This ones short cus I got a bit distracted with ANOTHER Doctor Who fic. I just get ideas and I have to write em down. This ones a classic Doctor Who fic:) check it out if you want. I'd love some feedback on it.**


	15. Chapter 15: Car Crash

**I was a little hesitant with the last chapter but I'm happy with the mostly positive feedback. So here's a slash free romance-less good old fashioned hurt/comfort chapter. That's late. Promise I'll try and be quicker on the next one.**

**And I've discovered why John's POV is so easy to write. It's because he's boring. But not in a bad way I guess. Just more simple minded than Sherlock. But we still love our adorable blogger/hobbit/guy in that movie I just saw a commercial for.**

**I mean seriously John! Quite hopping around from movie to movie and get back to solving crime.**

**Without further adieu...**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 15: Car Crash**

* * *

Sherlock woke with a gasp, his head pounding a fierce rhythm against his -possibly cracked- skull. Peeling his eyes open his vision swam, and why in god's name was everything upside down? Surly that wasn't normal.

Sherlock moaned and swallowed against the rising nausea. _Please don't puke, god, please do not puke,_ he silently pleaded with himself. He definitely had a concussion, pretty serious one by the feel of it. He just hoped he could get out of this mess before he inevitably lost consciousness.

Question: what exactly was this mess?

It took only seconds for him to deduce that he was in a car, but what car? Sherlock didn't own a car, and last he checked neither did John. Oh that's right, he stole it. Stupid brain catch up! And the damned safety-belt digging into his chest really wasn't helping his concentration in the slightest. Bloody hell, who where those retched things helping?

Twisting in the seat he managed to reach around and unbuckle the seatbelt. Sherlock cried out in pain as he slid from the seat and smacked his head on the car roof. Sending a blinding pain through his already busted and bleeding head and causing his stomach to churn with a murderous ferocity.

He needed to get out of here ASAP. Upside down in a mangled car really wasn't the best place to be with a concussion of all things. And the sent of blood was only making him feel more woozy.

Sherlock tried using his hands to push and drag himself out of the drivers seat and out either the busted door or shattered windshield.

"Ahhh!" White hot pain shot through his left arm and up to his shoulder at the slightest attempt of moving it. "Blast it!" He hissed breathlessly. It was useless, without his arm there was no way he could drag himself out of this damned car.

With his good arm Sherlock quickly located his cell in his jacket pocket. Sliding it out effortlessly. At least one thing could be painless today. He fumble with the buttons, hoping he at least sent Lestrade English. Though it was very possible his muddled mind sent it in French, which would be terribly awkward not to mention it wouldn't be even remotely helpful.

After the text was sent he let the phone slip from his blood slicked grip and clatter to the floor slash roof. Letting himself fall into oblivion there after it.

* * *

John didn't think much of it when he got home and flipped the telly to the news channel only to hear the drab anchor man blab on about some car accident in central London. Followed up by the weather. Which was pretty dull as well. Because get this, it was gonna rain.

Shocker!

But he couldn't really complain, so far he'd had a pretty good week. Helped solve a case, made front page of the paper. Got a bonus check from the clinic. Which meant the electric company finally turned their power back on. Don't even ask him how difficult it was to manoeuvre around the little flat in the dark. It was like a death trap with Sherlock's unfinished experiments spread all across every flat surface. Sometimes that man was absolutely insufferable.

But still, good week.

That is until one Greg Lestrade decided to give a call, phoning John in the middle of one of the rare relaxing times where Sherlock happened to be out. Setting his tea down he quickly answered the call.

"Hello," he answered still in as good a mood as ever.

"John, it's Sherlock."

And there goes the good mood, right out the window and landing on the street below with a SPLAT. Yeah he really didn't like where this conversation was headed. No conversation that even started remotely like that ever ended well. For anyone. "What did he do?" Though he really wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Get this, he got involved in a high speed chase while going after a criminal," Lestrade began to explain. However illegal the act was he couldn't help sounding slightly impressed. As though he had to remind himself this was Sherlock, not bloody James Bond.

"Naturally," what was he supposed to say? I mean, course he did. And of course it involved chasing a criminal. It was really difficult to surprise John these days.

"Well it didn't end so well."

Suddenly that news report from earlier wasn't seeming quite so drab.

"I don't know all the details but, it ended with Sherlock rolling the vehicle several times before landing in a ditch."

"He did _what_?!" Okay now John was concerned. "Where did Sherlock even get a car?"

"He stole it." Lestrade said simply. As if it was the most plausible thing ever. Though with Sherlock it wasn't at all shocking.

"Right."

"From a criminal."

John sighed and dragged a hand down his face. This was just fantastic, though he had to give him props for stealing from a criminal. So you know, it could be worse. "Of course he did. Well is he alright at least?"

"He was conscious long enough to shoot me a text with his location but he was out cold by the time we got to him." Lestrade explained. "Doc says he has a concussion and a few broken bones but should be fine in the long haul."

John nodded and sighed. Stupid Sherlock. "Alright, I'll be right down."

* * *

"I don't see why you're so mad."

"Really?" John eyed Sherlock from the foot of the hospital bed. Arms crossed across his chest. The man in question looked awful, bandaged head, pale skin. If he was any more white he'd disappear, he was already the colour of the cheap, scratchy sheets. "You rolled a car. Repeatedly. Which wasn't even yours."

"Well there's no reason to be cross about it." Sherlock just shrugged it off, "it's not like it's the worse thing I've ever done."

True.

"And you do have the tendency to overreact."

"Okay now you're asking for it," John warned, smiling with a mischievous glint in his eyes to match Sherlock's. He was just glad his best friend was okay.

The two where like children sometimes, Lestrade observed. It was ridiculous. How these two managed to actually solve cases was just bizarre.

* * *

**Please review and feel free to request a chapter or just pitch small ideas. Like a scene or anything particular you'd like to see. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**...Au Revoir.**


	16. Chapter 16: Breathe

**I've been re-watching the show preparing myself mentally for SEASON THREE! YES! I'm excited, are you excited?! Don't hide it, you're excited you know you are.**

**And I've officially decided the way the corner of Sherlock's eyes crinkle when he smiles is adorable. And in the first episode when they both thought the other may be gay is extremely amusing. Sherlock gets all stuttery and everything. Oh how I love those two.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Catie501. I loved the idea too much to resist.**

**Now! Read on my lovelies! And remember to review. Wether it be comments or you just wanna fangirl. Go nuts!**

**Chapter 16: Breathe**

* * *

It was everywhere; burning and consuming. Red hot flames licking their way up the aged woodwork and devoured everything in their patH relentlessly. This is what Sherlock woke to, fire and smoke all around him everywhere he looked.

It was horrifying to say the least. He could barely breathe, his breaths coming in short, pain filled gasps. It felt almost as if his ribs were being clamped down on, not allowing enough air in.

His throat burned as he gasped for air, feeling like a fish out of water. Blinking back tears that threatened to pour out of his stinging, red eyes he clawed at the splintered wood floor, dragging himself forward at an agonisingly slow pace.

"Ahh!" He couldn't help but cry out as white hot pain shot up from his leg blurring his vision. Frantically looking over his shoulder, his dark curls obscuring his vision a bit, he could see a board had fallen over on his leg. Part of the ceiling must have collapsed when he was out.

This damn rickety building was literally falling apart right on top of him. It was clear he wasn't getting anywhere as long as this thing was on his leg.

Sherlock coughed pitifully as smoke filled his lungs. He needed out of here and now. Where was that damn cellphone of his? Oh yeah that's right, at home. In the kitchen. In a drawer. Yeah because that was real helpful, way to go Sherly. If he could be would've slapped himself on the forehead.

Not seeing any other options at the given moment Sherlock began using his other leg -his good leg- to try and kick the plank off and hopefully wriggle his leg loose. This was really not looking too good for him.

And to think this all started because Sherlock got bored. He really needed a better outlet than running head first into dangerous situations involving murderers. And this was definitely not one of his better ideas. Seeing as it involved being chloroformed and waking up in an abandoned old flat that was being burnt to the ground with him inside it! Yeah, he'd had better days.

After a few more attempts at kicking the pillar off he finally managed to slip his leg loose. And it soon became painfully obvious that it was broken.

Through the smoke his muddled mind could faintly make out the doors to the lift. He was suddenly extremely grateful to whomever it was that decided stairs were overrated. Summoning his strength, Sherlock grit his teeth and pushed himself onto his good knee. Praying it wouldn't give out beneath him. Not only would it be rather inconvenient, but it would be massively painful.

Standing on his good but shaky left leg, Sherlock hobbled over to the lift. His body wracked with tremors as the pain continued to shoot relentlessly through his body. The smoke burning his eyes and stinging in his lungs.

Leaning heavily against the wall by the lift Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath, another bout of coughs tormenting him. The fire was quickly spreading and the smoke was growing thicker.

Sherlock impatiently smacked the down button repeatedly on the lift, completely surprised that it actually worked. He wasn't really expecting it to, seeing as he was in the abandoned half of the old flat. Small miracles, huh?

As the door slid open with a 'ding', he unceremoniously threw himself into the small, stuffy lift. Absolutely exhausted. Sherlock punched the 'close doors' button frantically, not wanting the smoke to follow him in.

Slowly but surly the lift began descending to the ground floor.

Sherlock slumped against the wall- pale, shaky fingers gripping the handle along the wall for support as he hacked painfully into his arm. His mind spinning from the lack of fresh air. His broken leg hung uselessly while his good one shook with the effort of holding his body up. He was too weak to stand for much longer and he didn't even know if he could make it to a phone booth to call for help. No, not help. Sherlock Holmes didn't call for help. Just some assistance.

As the door dinged open, Sherlock carefully pushed himself from the corner of the lift and limped to the front door of the complex.

As the door opened, Sherlock was taken completely off guard. The street was a mess, scattered with firetrucks and a few ambulances and squad cars. Apparently someone in the neighbourhood had the brains to call 999 when they saw the fire.

Now that he was outside, Sherlock took a moment to relish in the fresh, London night air. His lungs burning from the sudden change from smoggy to clean air.

"Holmes!"

Sherlock half spun around to see Lestrade running up to him, Donovan a few paces behind. The detective inspector clapped him on the shoulder and embraced him in a half hug, leading him over towards the nearest ambulance and paramedics.

looked liked he wouldn't be needing a phone booth afterall.

"Lestrade," Sherlock managed between coughs, "what are you doing here?" Sherlock wondered, his voice rough and weaker than he'd like. he had no business being at a lousy fire.

"Someone called in the fire and I remembered John saying something about you investigating a case somewhere in this part of town. I was concerned." He admitted rather reluctantly.

Sherlock willing allowed Lestrade to sit him down in the ambulance. But when the man with the bright orange shock blanket approached, that was just too far. Upon seeing the death glare Sherlock was sending his way the paramedic simply turned on his heel and treaded off in the opposite direction.

Lestrade chuckled at the little display between the two and leant against the van beside Sherlock. "I called John, he should be here soon."

Sherlock bowed his head in acknowledgement and coughed into his hand as a paramedic came along to check his leg. Sherlock bit his lip to hold in a yelp of pain as he prodded the broken bone. "It's clearly broken so if you could stop your primitive poking and prodding already!" Sherlock hissed. And who could blame him? It bloody hurt!

Lestrade chuckled and pushed off from the ambulance as John Watson came bounding their way.

"Sherlock!" He hurried over to his friend. "You okay? Lestrade said tha-"

"Yes, yes, John I'm perfectly fine."

"If you count excessive smoke inhalation and a broken leg perfectly fine, then yeah. He's okay."

Sherlock shot Lestrade a look that clearly said, 'shut up before I make you.' Which Lestrade returned with his own look that read, 'good luck catching me on that leg of yours.'

John sighed and sat down beside Sherlock, arms crossed over his chest. Completely oblivious to their mental conversation. "You could have gotten yourself killed."

"It wasn't like I did it on purpose John," Sherlock said sternly.

"No because you never do. You know sometimes I wonder how someone with that brain can act so bloody stupid sometimes." John shook his head in a seemingly disappointed gesture. But he looked at Sherlock fondly, just happy that he was alive and well.

Sherlock's eyes shone bright with the brilliance held behind them as he returned John's smile.

Lestrade shook his head and headed back on his way to his car, fiddling with his keys in his pocket. The relationship those two held bewildered him. Never before had anyone been able to handle Sherlock Holmes like John Watson could. That man was a saint, truly.

Glancing back over his shoulder he could see Sherlock and John laughing like fools in the back of the ambulance, firemen working around them to extinguish the slowly dieing flames. The sight brought a smile to the detective inspector's face.


	17. Chapter 17: Migraine

**Warning: this chapter contains a few French words. I'll put translations at the end of the chapter for you. On mistake i wrote italian, my fault. I'm so sorry. I've been practicing my italian and I got totally mixed up. But I fixed it!**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 17: Migraine**

* * *

"Sherlock are you sure you're feeling alright?"

Sherlock turned on Lestrade, sizing up the Detective Inspector. "I'm fine, of course I'm fine. I'm always fine," he snapped feeling rather annoyed. In truth he felt bloody awful, he was shaky and exhausted all the way down to the bone -a week without sleep could do that to you. His head pounded a constant rhythm from behind his eyes, slowly driving him up the wall. His entire head ached fiercely. But he refused to show such weakness in front of the Scotland Yarders, specifically Sargent Donovan who was practically attached to Lestrade's hip. She would absolutely love to use his illness as fuel against him.

"Right, because if you're not feeling up to this I can always call you a cab or take you home myself." Despite himself, Lestrade found he actually cared for Sherlock's well being. He always found himself worrying over him. If he wasn't feeling well he wished he'd just come out and admit it all ready, the façade was getting old. And an ill Consulting Detective was of no use at a crime scene.

"I'm fine Lestrade, just a headache." Sherlock knelt down beside the corpse, brushing the detective's concern off and getting to work. He didn't need his pity, he was just fine. Absolutely fine. Or at least he would be as soon as he got out of here and back to Baker Street. As much as he hated to admit it, he too was vulnerable to common illnesses.

Doing all he could in his current state, Sherlock quickly finished with what needed to be done, relaying what he found to Lestrade. Leaving the crime scene all to Anderson and his crew.

"You're sure you're alright Holmes?" Lestrade asked, catching up to Sherlock as he started off the crime scene. "You seem kind of, I don't know, out of it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn't keep back the wince as the pressure in his skull increased. It was dark out by now, but the street lamps usually welcomed glow seemed to cause his head to pound even worse. The small light attacking his retinas mercilessly.

"I'm fine Lestrade."

He wasn't fooled, they didn't just make anyone Detective Inspector after all. And despite what Sherlock thought, Greg Lestrade was an excellent policeman. "You want me to call John to pick you up?"

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes screwed shut against the pain as he pinched the bridge of his nose. As if that was supposed to stem the pain somehow. "Can't. He's in Dublin for the weekend."

Swallowing against the nausea Sherlock looked at Lestrade. Like really looked at him. Why did he care? No one else but John and Mrs. Hudson ever showed that they cared for him at all. So why did Lestrade always seem to? He was the only one at the Yard who did, Donovan and Anderson sure didn't. And as far as the rest of the Yard went, they really didn't care for him either.

"You know what, I'll take you home," the DI decided. And no Sherlock stinking Holmes was going to change his mind, his decision was final.

Sherlock scowled at him seemingly affronted by the idea. "No you will not. I am a grown man perfectly capable of calling a cab." He tried to sound defiant and in control, but to Lestrade he looked more like a pouty teenager.

Lestrade smirked, "either I take you home or I'll have Sargent Donovan do it."

Sherlock froze -you evil, evil man- and after a moments thought gave a defeated sigh, realising there really was no way of getting around this. "After you," he said quietly, gestured to the DI's car.

Smiling triumphantly to himself Lestrade bound over to his car, sliding into the drivers seat. He couldn't help but notice how Sherlock seemed to fumble with the door handle before finally pulling it open and sliding in. He rubbed his aching head as he absently pulled the safety-belt on. Completely aware that Lestrade was watching him with a careful eye throughout the entire ride to Baker Street.

"Well come on then," Lestrade climbed out of his care and came around to help Sherlock, opening the car door for him.

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade. He was perfectly capable of getting out of a care damn it! But if Lestrade insisted on helping then what the hell, right? Now if only he could get his blasted key in the lock.

Sensing the trouble Sherlock was having with the usually simple task of unlocking his front door Lestrade felt obligated to step in. Snatching the key from his pale, shaky hands and simply doing it himself muttering, "give me that." Swinging the door open and stepping aside.

Sherlock scowled. He may have needed the assistance, but that didn't mean he had to like it, least of all want it. This migraine was really getting the best of him, he couldn't even open a bloody door! That was just down right pathetic in his book. Which was the only one that really mattered seeing as the rest of the world was full of idiots.

Now only if he could get up the seventeen steps to his flat. He wouldn't have even made it up the first three if it wasn't for Lestrade's help. Again.

He nearly fell back while on the top step, losing his balance he nearly tripped over his long, gangly legs. "Merde!" Sherlock cursed under his breath -French being his second language it just sort of came out on its own accord- as he nearly tumbled down the steps. Lestrade reaching out at the last second, grabbing him by his shirt collar and roughly pulling him back up.

"Okay, you- sit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the DI instructed him to sit down. On his own couch. In his own home. Man, Lestrade was so bossy sometimes. But never the less he did as he was told, not really in the mood to argue. And sitting did sound fantastic to Sherlock's aching head and swimming vision. The whole way up the stairs he was seeing three Lestrade's. Which was horrifying to say the least.

"Here, take this." Sherlock looked up from where he sat with his head in his hands to see Lestrade handing him two pills and a glass of water. "They'll help with the head," he encouraged.

Sherlock nodded, "merci," and took the pills and water gratefully.

"You think you're going to be able to work this case?" Lestrade asked. He didn't want to make Sherlock if be didn't feel up to it, but he was desperate after all and could really use his help on this. They had zero leads and he'd prefer to wrap this up as soon as possible.

"Je vais bien, Lestrade, j'ai juste besoin de repos."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. Either Sherlock was worse than he thought or he was messing with him. Which wasn't a very Sherlock like thing to do. "Sorry what? Sherlock, I don't know if you realise this, but you're speaking in French."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "vraiment?" Sherlock paused and cleared his throat, finally catching his mistake. "Sorry."

Lestrade just laughed and rolled his eyes, taking Sherlock's now empty water glass.

"I'll be fine, just need some sleep." Sherlock leaned back on the couch kicking his shoes off and pulling a pillow over his head, blocking out he sunlight that leaked through the windows. "I'll text you in the morning if I can't make it."

Lestrade nodded understanding. Less than a two days ago they had just closed a case. One that kept Sherlock up and at it for over a week, giving him little chances for sleep. There was no way he wasn't exhausted. And in his state of weakness his mind retaliated on his maltreated body giving him the mother of all migraines. One that, apparently, mixed up his languages.

"Well then, I'll see you later Holmes. Get some sleep," and with that Lestrade was gone, out the door and back to work. Leaving Sherlock alone in the dark flat to finally get some well needed rest. It was a matter of seconds before he let the darkness pull him under into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

* * *

**Merde:Shit**

**Je vais bien, Lestrade, j'ai juste besoin de repos.: I'll be fine, Lestrade, just need some rest.**

**merci: Thanks**


	18. Chapter 18: Motherly Instinct

**So Mrs. Hudson is never actually given a first name, like anywhere. Though in the books she's associated with the name 'Martha' and Sherlock calls her 'Mrs. Turner' once, and on another spin off I believe she's called 'Marie'. So I'm giving her the name Martha Marie Turner-Hudson. Turner being her maiden name and Marie being her middle.**

**And as always...**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 18: Motherly Instinct**

* * *

Mrs. Martha Hudson was having a completely average evening -well as average as it could get when sharing accommodations with one Sherlock Holmes along with his mate John Watson. Yet even then it had been a relatively quiet day. She'd go as far as to say it had been peaceful.

And that's exactly how Mrs. Hudson knew something wasn't right. There was absolutely no reason for Baker Street to be this uneventful, none at all. It just wasn't a peaceful place. She'd had the nagging feeling for some time now that something was amiss. Not a single sound could be heard from 221B and not a single cop car had gone by. That in itself was rather strange and cause for worry.

Usually this kind of utter silence would be due to the boys being out. But she knew that that couldn't be the case for they had never left. She would have heard them for sure.

Call it what you will, but Mrs. Hudson liked to refer to it as motherly instinct. She may have never had kids of her own, but Sherlock and John were the closest thing she'd ever get, and she wouldn't have it any other way. She just knew something was up with her boys. And after a few more minutes of sitting by and fretting, she just had to check in on them.

After carefully knocking on 221B's door she pushed it open a smidgen and peered into the quiet flat. Nothing immediately struck her as odd, so she stepped further inside closing the door behind her. The usually lively home was dark and apparently empty. All the lights off and everything in its usual place. But that just couldn't be right...

Martha Hudson quickly scurried over to Sherlock's closed door, knocking gently and poking her head in. And to her dismay, there in the dark room lay Sherlock Holmes, curled up in a shivering ball cacooned in his thick blankets.

Mrs. Hudson's face softened at the sight of the detective looking so vulnerable. No wander this pace was so silent, he pry hadn't even gotten out of bed once all day.

_Poor thing_.

She carefully sat on the edge of the mattress and ran her fingers through his thick mat of curls. "Sherlock, dear, what's the matter?" It was a rather silly question she knew, but she needed to know what it was he'd come down with if she were to take care of him properly.

Sherlock stirred from his sleep and blinked bleary eyes up at his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson? What are you doing here?" His voice was quiet and barely above a whisper but it was all he could manage.

"I came to check on you deary, now what's the matter?"

"It's jus a cold," he slurred, snuggling deeper into his blankets.

Mrs Hudson nodded, "and what about John, where's he?"

Sherlock gave a weak shrug. "Think he's sick too."

Mrs. Hudson blinked, that explained a lot. No wander their flat had been so utterly quiet. Both of her boys were ill, neither being able to help the other when they were both bedridden. "Alrighty, you just sit tight a bit longer dear, I'm going to go check on Dr. Watson and then I'll bring you some soup."

Sherlock hummed his acknowledgment and drifted back off to sleep.

With a nod of satisfaction Mrs. Hudson sprung from the room and hurried up the small creaky flight of stairs to John's room.

With a knock she let herself in, only to -unsurprisingly- be met with a similar sight as when she entered Sherlock's quarters. John lay curled on his side looking worse for ware, shivering yet sweating just like Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson knelt beside him, running a hand through his damp hair to wake him. "John, I need you to wake up," she said gently coaxing him from his restless sleep.

John moaned but did as asked, blinking up at Mrs. Hudson. "Mrs. Hudson? Is everything alright?"

She smiled at his concern, "I'm just fine John, are you alright?"

John, coughed into his fist and partially sat up against the headboard. "It's just a bad cold, no need to worry, I think we have some medicine in the cupboard. I meant to fetch it earlier but..."

"I'll be back in a tick."

Just a few minutes later Mrs. Hudson had fetched the cold medicine and hastily distributed it to each of her boys, followed by a bowl of soup. Each took it gratefully. She just hoped they'd be well soon, London couldn't afford to loose the great Sherlock Holmes for much longer. And honestly, what was he without his trusty blogger? The city -nay, the _country_- needed those boys, weather it knew it or not, it truly did.

* * *

**It's a bit short, but all the same, I hope you liked it. And please review. Lets try to get 100 if em!**


	19. Chapter 19: A Good Man

**I am SO SORRY. This is so god damn late I'm ashamed! School started and we've been taking tests and I've had homework and SO MANY projects to do and OMG I'm so sorry. Hopefully this chapter'll make up for my lateness. I'm planing on updating regularly like once a week, but we'll see.**

**I genuinely hope you like this new chapter. So please, without further adieu, enjoy!**

**SH 19: A Good Man**

_"Sherlock Holmes Is A Great Man, And I Think One Day, If We're Very Very Lucky, He Might Even Be A Good One"- DI Lestrade_

For once in his life, Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. His hyperactive mind was reeling at a hundred miles per hours, calculating every possible way this situation could turn out. Most of which seemingly not in his favour.

Bullets flew past in every direction, wiping through the air and clinking against the dumpster Sherlock found himself hiding behind and bouncing off the brick walls around them. A strange feeling was rising from the pit of his stomach. Panic? Could Sherlock Holmes really be panicking right now?

_No, no, no, no, no. Just calm down, everything'll be just fine if you'd calm down!_

Yeah, mentally berating yourself really doesn't help.

_Okay Sherlock, breathe. You'll figure this out and John'll be just fine. You'll see._

You're pry wondering why Sherlock would be panicking, well, to elaborate, Sherlock and John hitched a ride with Lestrade to a crime scene. Only to not exactly make it to the crime scene, not completely anyway. They were only a few blocks away when their squad car was hit head on by a slightly larger and faster car. Not good right?

Well, to make it even worse, as soon as Sherlock pulled himself from the wreck of the ruined vehicle, a hail storm of gunfire rained down on him. Leaving Sherlock with no choice but to take cover behind a dumpster with Lestrade at the mouth of an alleyway. With no idea where John had gone off to. Or if he was even alive for that matter.

Sherlock could only assume these people had some connection to the crime they were on their way to investigate and in someway felt they had unfinished business with the assigned detectives. Either that or Moriarty, but that was a bit of a stretch really wasn't it?

With his dark, curly hair a wild mess wiping around his face, Sherlock pressed himself harder against the dumpster. Ignoring the bleeding gash in his hairline that oozed in his face, obscuring his vision. Another, deeper gash on his upper arm stung strongly, but Sherlock grit his teeth and ignored it to the best of his abilities. Focused only in getting to Watson. He meant what he had said before, he'd be lost without his blogger.

Suddenly, Sherlock took a chance peek around the dumpster, hoping to get a real look to asses the situation at hand. Sherlock visibly relaxed when he found he could see John from where he was at. Though the relief was short lived, for John was quite literally caught in the crossfire. Trapped behind the wreckage of the car and surrounded by armed men that continued to fire mercilessly.

This wasn't good at all. Sherlock could feel his panic rising, twisting his stomach into all kinds of uncomfortable nots. He really didn't like this. Sherlock Holmes didn't do concern.

_Damn it John! Why couldn't you have just stayed at home!?_ Sherlock wondered. _Oh that's right, because you're a bloody idiot who's just like me and runs head first towards the slightest opportunity of excitement!_

Usually Sherlock would be proud of John, proud of himself even, for rubbing off on the man. But this was bad. This was _really_ bad.

Sherlock wiped his head around towards Lestrade -blood continuing to drip into his eyes- who had his gun pulled out and continuously fired back at the criminals. His face scrunched into a tight knit scowl of concentration.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, he had a bad feeling about this. But sometimes life gives you lemons and you just have to standup and say, 'fuck you and your lemons! You want lemonade, then make it yourself!'

With that, Sherlock sprung on Lestrade, ripping the gun from his hands before the poor detective could even blink. Sherlock spun on his heels and leapt from behind the dumpster, levelling the gun at the man across the street. Aiming straight for his forehead.

Without an ounce of hesitation, Sherlock fired, hitting his mark with ease.

He continued his advance on the opposing criminals. Heading straight for John Watson, only faintly registering Lestrade's shouts and curses from behind him. He only had one thing on his mind, and that was to get his Doctor the hell out of there.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, earning a surprised wide eyed look from the shorter man. "Get out of here! Lestrade's behind the bin! I'll cover you, now go!"

With a quick nod John sprung to his feet. Following Sherlock's orders to the letter and heading right for Lestrade. Sherlock continued firing, keeping his gun -well I say 'his' gun- level. Firing with expert hands, not shooting to kill, but definitely to wound. Keeping the street clear for John to make his get away.

As John took cover behind the bin, Sherlock quickly dove after him. Pressed up shoulder to shoulder between John and Lestrade.

"What in bloody hell were you thinking!" Lestrade bellowed, gripping Sherlock by his coat collar and snatching his gun from Sherlock's shaky hands.

"Oh relax Lestrade it's not like you can arrest me, according to the law it was self defence," Sherlock snapped with an eye roll.

He suddenly turned to John, inspecting him with a critical eye for any sign of injury. "John," Sherlock breathed, "your hands bleeding."

John looked down at his hand, his palm was, in fact, bleeding. "Must have cut it on the wreckage." He reasoned with a small shrug, wrapping it tightly in a strip of cloth from the end of his shirt tale. "Could be worse." Suddenly John hit Sherlock, a hard smack on the arm. "You bloody moron! What were you thinking!? No, wait, I don't want to know what was going on in that crazy mind of yours."

"You're lucky I don't arrest you on the spot!" Lestrade shot in.

"Yes well, were a bit busy right now don't you think Inspector!"

John's expression softened, "thank you though, really."

Sherlock gave a short nod in reply. "Of course."

It only took a few minutes after that for back up to arrive, word of shootings spread fast in the city. Thankfully. Apparently Scotland Yard was still good for a thing or two.

* * *

Sherlock looked from Lestrade to the bright orange shock blanket, and back to Lestrade. "No."

With that he stood from the back of the ambulance, making his way over to John, his head and arm wrapped tightly in fresh bandages.

"You okay?" John wondered.

Sherlock gave a small smile, grateful for his friends concern. "Fine, just a few scrapes. Gonna have to sew up the hole in my coat, but I think I'll survive."

John nodded, knowing fully well he was lying through his teeth. He saw the blood before, knew it must hurt like a bitch. He was a doctor after all, and a damn good one at that.

"I don't know about you, but a cup of tea and a good nights rest sounds positively divine right about now." Sherlock said with a yawn, distractedly kneading the spot around the gash in his head. Warding off the inevitable oncoming headache with one hand, the other stuffed deep in his coat pocket.

John smiled, "damn it Sherlock. You just get me don't you."

Sherlock grinned back. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, it's my job," he stated mater-of-factly.

Lestrade watched the mismatched duo hail a cab, a smile grazing his lips. A lot of things could be said about Sherlock Homes, many things he wouldn't dare repeat aloud. But one thing was for certain, underneath that uncaring harsh exterior, was a man.

A real man.

A _good_ man.


End file.
